


The One with the Time Traveler

by papersurrous



Series: Wordless Ways to Say "I Love You" [3]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: 50 Wordless Ways to Say "I Love You", Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Childhood Friends, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Griddy’s Doughnuts (Umbrella Academy), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Apocalypse, Referenced Animal Death/Gore, Swearing, The Temps Commission, Time Travel Shenanigans, Underage Drinking, mr. pennycrumb - Freeform, not in numerical order lol but oh well, tua s2 spoilers, warnings and aus are in the notes for each one shot by the way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 26,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25885555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersurrous/pseuds/papersurrous
Summary: Life is complicated. Being involved with a spatial-jumping, time-traveling grouch is even more so.Oh well.—(Five/Reader one shots, some related, some not. All based on the 50 Wordless Ways to Say "I Love You" prompt list by @50-item-writing-prompts on Tumblr.)
Relationships: Five/Reader, Klaus Hargreeves & Reader, Lila Pitts & Reader, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Reader, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy)/Reader
Series: Wordless Ways to Say "I Love You" [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878406
Comments: 50
Kudos: 305





	1. blink of an eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7\. Lightly kissing on top of a freshly formed bruise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

It’s bruising.

Five rolls his pajama sleeve up to his elbow and stares at the black umbrella on his wrist, tracing over the inked lines and the dappled, purpling skin between them. His frown deepens. He didn’t know that it could bruise. What a pain in the ass.

If there’s one thing that he, his siblings, and you all agree on, it’s that all of you hate the damn thing. None of you need a tattoo to remember your connection to everyone else, like Dad had claimed. The uniforms, missions, and nonstop training sessions are enough.

Someone knocks. Five tears his gaze away from the tattoo to look up at where you linger in the doorway, already dressed in your street clothes. 

Your eyes fall on his wrist. “Oh – does yours still hurt, too?” you say. You close the door quietly and walk toward his bed, sitting down next to him. Fatigue lines your face, but you still manage a smile, like always.

“It’s just bruised,” he answers, glancing down at it again before moving on to examine your left arm. Like him, you had rolled your sleeve up so it wouldn’t rub against your skin.

“Mine still aches a bit. No bruises, though.” You lean in closer to examine his wrist, and your smile fades. “Oh, wow. That looks pretty bad.”

“It’s fine.”

Still, you continue to fuss over it quietly. Five lets you. He’s likely just damn tired from the day, but he doesn’t resist when you take his hand and place it in your lap, fingers hovering over the tattoo. The closeness isn’t all that irritating. In fact, he considers the idea that this kind of attention, though different, might be nice. You really have a strange way of doing things.

“Too bad nobody around here has healing powers,” you mutter, lifting his arm up closer to your face. He can feel your breath on his skin. “That’d be useful.”

Only half-paying attention to your chatter, Five watches as you cradle his wrist, vaguely aware of how he’d have to kill his siblings if any of them walked in right now. He shouldn’t let you baby him like this … but maybe just this once …

You bend over and place a kiss on his wrist.

Shit. That felt nice.

Five blinks, eyes fixating on his bruised skin and then on the way your lips curl up in a smile. You seem self-satisfied, the way you do when a spoon sticks on longer than before, or when he finishes first during training.

“What was that?” he asks, but he hears his voice and it sounds like someone else, soft and calm. It sounds like yours.

“A placebo,” you answer amiably. You place his hand down and between the two of you, raising an eyebrow at him. “Your mom never kissed your cuts and bruises growing up?”

“No,” he says, mildly bewildered at your claim. Your action runs through his mind in an endless loop. It feels like you’ve drugged him.

“Oh. Well, there’s always a first. My gift to you.”

Your hand moves to cover his and you pat it, regarding him thoughtfully. And against his better judgement, Five doesn’t pull away.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

“You’re welcome –”

His door swings open as soon as the words leave your mouth. Five’s head snaps toward the doorway, and the peacefulness that had clouded his mind quickly vanishes once he sees _him_.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Klaus exclaims, covering his mouth. His eyes glint, and Five silently warns him to shut his trap; he does _not_ need this right now – “was I intruding on some Quality Time?”

“Kind of.” You stand up before Five can properly interpret what _kind of_ means, your hand leaving his as you walk over to his brother. “But it’s okay. What is it?”

“Sad news. Your mom’s here to pick you up.”

“Aw, already?”

“Yes.” Klaus sighs deeply, as if the weight of the world had just been placed on his shoulders. Five doesn’t hold back in rolling his eyes. What a clingy bastard. “I wish you’d just stay here with us every weekend, [Y/n]. It’s so much fun with you around.”

You wrap your arms around him, squeezing tight. “You’ll survive two days without me,” you comfort, pulling back.

Klaus sighs again, then looks over your shoulder and directly at him. Five stands up and walks over as the latter’s eyes squint cheekily. “Oh, you know, I really hope so.”

“With your record, I highly doubt it,” Five interjects, matching Klaus’ beam with a sharper one until his brother lets go of your hands. He turns to you, keeping his distance this time. “See you on Monday, [Y/n].”

“See you, Five.” You give him a hug of his own, cheek pressing against the side of his neck. So much for distance. He should’ve known. Five reciprocates briefly, refusing to look at Klaus’ face. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

You pull back and grin at him. Then, in a manner he _knows_ you caught from Klaus, you peck his cheek and run out of the room.

The next thing Five registers is Number Idiot bursting into a fit of obnoxious giggles.

“– _kissed_ you! Oh, Five, I’m so proud,” he squeals, clapping quietly so Dad can’t hear them downstairs. His normally haunted eyes are bright and delighted. “This calls for a celebration! Let me get Dad’s scotch from the –”

Without another thought, Five blinks behind Klaus and yanks him out of the doorway by the back of his collar. His brother stumbles back with a yelp as Five blinks back into his room.

He closes and locks the door before Klaus can stick his hand through. The other boy whines through the oakwood.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually, the pleading outside his room ceases and Five is alone again. Thank god. He looks down at his wrist one last time and clicks his tongue, turning the light off. Ever since you started attending the academy, you’ve made everything _complicated_.

 _That’s just how you are_ _with everyone_.

This is the last thing he needs right now. He’s got more important issues to think about – his spatial jumps, time traveling. Their next training session tomorrow without you. There’s no time to waste on wondering whether or not you’d do the same thing for any of his siblings.

With that, Five heads to bed. The moonlight seeps through his window as he peels back the sheets, lies down, and sighs. Hopefully, your touch will be gone in the morning.


	2. the space-time continuum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9\. Participating in their hobby even if it doesn’t personally interest you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

Five doesn’t really have any hobbies in the traditional sense.

He’s becoming more and more of a workaholic these days. The siblings love to harp on Luther for being as bland as toast, but even Number One takes the time to have fun once in a while; Five does not, at least not for the past few months. Even his weekly half hour of sanctioned free time is usually spent practicing his spatial jumps or writing equations. Lots of equations. One would be inclined to say that working _is_ Five’s hobby, in its own, terribly boring way.

So one Saturday, when the clock strikes noon, you head over to Five’s room and knock on the door.

“Come in.”

“Well, that was easy,” you say, opening the door. Five is at his desk, scribbling in yet another notebook. “I thought there’d be more resistance.”

“Only three people in this house knock before coming in,” Five replies, not looking up as you walk over. “Mom, Vanya, and you. Mom is cleaning the living room and Vanya’s practicing, so that leaves –” he crosses a line out – “you.”

You smile. “Don’t I feel special.”

“Yeah, well, don’t flatter yourself.”

Knowing that he’ll probably kick you out if you tease him further, you instead peer over his shoulder at his work. Equations, just as you suspected. There’s a ragged edge near the spine where he had torn a page out and started over.

“Any way I could help?”

“Probably not.”

You glare at him. There’s just the _slightest_ uptick on the corner of his mouth. “ _Everything_ has a pattern, Five. I bet I could find one in all this stuff.”

“This ‘stuff’ is space-time mathematical physics. Of _course_ there’re patterns, but they’re all twisted together in the world’s shittiest rope.” He finally looks up at you in that piercing way of his, and you try to ignore the jump in your heartbeat when he does so. “There’s a chair right over there. If you’re going to stick around, don’t hover over me like a vulture.”

In other words, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. Not bothering to press down a smile, you drag the chair over and sit next to Five, as close as you can without invading his personal space – he’s gotten more adamant about it lately, along with his growing antisocial tendencies. But today, it seems that he’s alright with your knees touching. Hands folding politely on top of the desk, you take the briefest moment to admire his side profile before examining his work closely for the first time.

 _Everything has a pattern_. You tune out the sounds of your breathing, the crisp sound of a pen scratching at paper, your blood pulsing. Working with inanimate things is still a pain; you’d rather concentrate on living things than a jumble of numbers and variables. But this is important to Five and you want to help him, so you take in a slow, deep breath and drag your eyes down the page.

Yikes. It looks like one of the exercises Sir Hargreeves makes you train with, unfortunately. Most of the page is a derivation of some kind. You stare at the steps without blinking, eyes straining to locate just a thread, anywhere, to grasp –

“Ah-ha!” you exclaim when a trail fades into view, light blue against the pure white paper. Five looks over at you, and you grin sheepishly.

“You got it?” he asks dryly, twisting the pen once over his fingers. Still, his tone is expectant.

You fixate on the next page, and the rest of the patterns come into view, each one a different color. Five’s right – they’re all twisted together like a rope. It’s looser in some places, though.

“Got it,” you breathe. “Wow, that’s pretty neat.”

Five hums, satisfied, and resumes writing. You watch the paper intently as he continues to fill the notebook with figures, circling some numbers here and there and testing a calculation on some scrap paper every once in a while. The threads weave in and out of each other, and after a few minutes, you begin to see wisps of equations yet to be written – approximations of the best path to take. They’re faint, but you can see them. Yes!

“Might I give my humble opinion, Five?” you put in when he finally pauses.

He raises an eyebrow, pen clicking. “Shoot.”

Keeping your eyes on the notebook, you scoot closer and reach over to grab the scrap paper, plucking a spare pencil from the holder at the corner his desk. Five’s gaze burns into your hand as you start copying down the prediction as well as you can.

Once you’ve finished, you point at the denominator of the last answer in Five’s notebook. “So according to the pattern, you should –”

“Expand it as a power series in Planck’s constant,” Five mutters, leaning in to check your work. “Huh. That makes sense.” He nods, glancing over at you with a thoughtful expression. “Nice work.”

The compliment brings forth all sorts of gushy feelings that you’d rather die than admit to anyone, but the happiness shows on your face anyway. “No problem at all. Piece of cake.”

Five flips through his notebook again, then closes it and tosses his pen onto the desk. Leaning back in his chair, he looks past you and through the window before leveling his gaze back onto you. No words are exchanged for what feels like an eternity.

“So,” he finally says, right when you wonder whether he wants you to leave. He crosses his arms. “Why’d you really stop by?”

“What?”

“Well, to put it nicely, you’re not exactly a math person. Especially when it comes to the kind I’m doing, so …” Five tilts his head toward you.

You balk, scrambling for a way to explain without sounding like a buffoon. He simply waits, letting you brew as usual, as if he has all the time in the world until you come up with something. “I just …” you finally manage, shrugging weakly, “wanted to hang out with you. You’ve been kinda cooped up in your room lately, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing that?” You gesture to his notebook. He nods. “What _is_ it, exactly?”

“A spatial jump study.”

“Spatial jump study?” you echo, blinking with surprise. “Why?”

“Dad wants me to know how my power works as part of my training,” Five says flatly, standing up and walking towards his nightstand. “It’ll prepare me for time traveling – even though I’ve been ready for months already.”

You blink rapidly, taken aback. “You can _time_ _travel_?”

He opens a drawer and rummages through its contents, picking something up. “Technically, I already can, since my spatial jumps manipulate time to a certain degree. If Dad would just _let_ me, I could jump months forward. Maybe even years.” He tosses whatever he’d been holding to you. Instinctively, you catch it. “You dropped that after our last mission, by the way.”

You look down at your hand. In it lies a small keychain in the shape of a fluffy little bird, lemon yellow and cartoonish. Frowning, you pick it up by the keyring and dangle it closer to your face. _Did_ you drop this one? You remember that you had lost a keychain when one of the robbers tore your jacket pocket, and that you had gone with birds that day, but to be honest you don’t quite remember what it looked like. You have a _lot_ of bird keychains. The perks of joining the famous Umbrella Academy, you guess.

You pocket it anyway. “Thanks,” you murmur, touched either way.

Five shrugs and strides back over, hands in his pockets. “No problem. It was easy to spot.”

“I’ll say.” Standing up, you glance at the alarm clock next to his bed and gawp at the time. **_12:20_**. There’s only ten minutes left? Geez. “Well … I better get ready. I’ll see you during training, I guess.”

Reluctantly, you make your way to the door, hearing the muffled _clunk_ of your chair being set down as Five returns it back to its rightful place. Right. But when you open the door, preparing to step out into the hallway, he calls your name.

You quickly look back. “Hm?”

“Let me know if you need any help with your puzzles,” he says.

A smile immediately crawls onto your lips. Nodding, you look down at your feet and then back up at him. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

As you walk towards your room, strangely giddy, you pass Diego on the way. He gives you a weird look but you hardly care, reaching into your jacket pocket to touch the cool metal within.

 _See you then_.


	3. the opened eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 15\. Calming them down when they have a bad dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: swearing, panic attack

His eyes open to a dark, murky sky.

Crap. Not again. Five sits up sluggishly, fighting the pounding in his head as he tries to figure out how much sleep he’s gotten – not enough, obviously, but knowing the number of hours would be nice for once. God, his eyes hurt like hell. It feels like someone’s stuffed cotton through his ears all the way into his brain. He blinks hard, cursing under his breath as he holds his head.

Why did he wake up _this_ time? After rubbing his temples in an effort to relieve the tension – though he knows it’s only temporary – Five exhales softly and looks over at where you’re sleeping a few feet away. Your back is facing him, but …

_You …_

He hears a groan.

_Shit._

Immediately, Five crawls towards you, grasping your shoulder and shaking it. You groan again. It’s low and weak, and through the fog in his head, he notes how shallow your breaths have gotten.

“[Y/n]. Wake up,” he hisses, but all you do is let out a sob. _Not again_. He shakes you harder, wincing as his headache increases. “Wake _up_ , goddammit –”

Finally – _finally_ – you react. Shooting up with a gasp, you scramble away from him. Five instinctively seizes your foot before it shoves into his side.

“ _[Y/n]_.” He lets go and grasps your shoulders, feeling them shudder beneath his hands. Tears run from your eyes and mucus from your nose – they shine wet against your face, exposed by the dying campfire. Shit. This is worse than last time. “It was just a dream, alright? Calm down.”

All you can reply with is a squeaky wheeze.

Five moves his hands down to your upper arms and settles back on his knees, mind going a thousand miles a second. You sniffle loudly, trying to catch your breath. You’re still shaking. He needs to calm you down somehow. How …

“Do you remember what it was about?” he eventually asks, trying to be delicate. (God, it still feels strange.)

“N-Nuh-No,” you force out. Sweat glistens on your brow. “I c-c-can’t rem-member …”

“It was just bad.”

“ _Yes_.”

Five tightens his lips as you choke down another breath, exhaling through your mouth with a whimper. 

A few weeks back, while the two of you were waiting out a dust storm, you had mentioned how rarely you remembered your dreams. It was something you had hated growing up – you had three older siblings that could remember details from their dreams like they were another life, and every morning you had to listen to their tales of adventure and horror and romance while you grumbled over your breakfast. You strained and strained for just one shred of a dream, but in the end, you could only recall darkness and the fluffiness of your pillow from the previous night.

It was just a piece of trivia to pass the time then. You never brought it up again, and Five tucked it away to join the other little facts he had learned about you, the ones that were of no particular importance but still, somehow, things he kept in the back of his mind.

He’s since discovered that even though you don’t remember what your dreams were about, you certainly remember how you _felt_ – particularly your terror during nightmares, which he doesn’t recall you having until several days ago.

His name leaves your mouth as a croak.

Subconsciously, Five runs his thumbs over the rough sleeves of your coat. You seem a little better now, but still tense. “Yeah?”

You wet your lips. “I-Is it okay if I … um …”

“Sure,” he murmurs.

Without another word, you lean in, pressing your forehead into the crook of his neck. Five accepts it silently, and after a slight hesitation, he gives in and rests his cheek against the side of your head. 

Your relief is almost palpable. As your sniffles subside, he lifts one hand to fleetingly cradle the back of your head, considering, but … no. He pulls back and shifts his hands down to your forearms instead. Holding hands would be too much, but this – this was okay. His migraine begins to recede, and a small, barely audible sigh escapes his lips.

You have a strong will. This is just a mental hurdle, some fear of the unknown resurfacing. He’ll offer his help if you need it.

(After all, you’ve done the same for him before. He’s just paying you back. Nothing more, nothing less.)

“Thank you,” you mumble after a while.

“Don’t worry about it.”

By dawn, you’ve dozed off against his shoulder. His legs ache terribly. But your breathing is calm.


	4. shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 22\. Listening to them while they vent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

Griddy’s Doughnuts, eleven past eleven on a muggy summer night, is probably the closest you’ll ever get to the twilight zone. And you kind of like it. The white, circular ceiling lights, the generic posters of steaming pancakes and coffee, the almost-emptiness of the place – it’s so different from the bustle of city life that you feel like you’re suspended in time, existing only to drink milkshakes and eat donuts.

There are two other reasons why you go to Griddy’s, though. For one, your friend Martha. She’s an adult, which your grandmother doesn’t like because you’ve been here for four years and still haven’t made any friends at school, which would be more normal. But you’ve always been better at talking to adults than people your own age, and Martha is so nice that you don’t really care how old she is. Plus, she lets you bring leftover donuts home for free.

Reason two is more like six.

“Five! Hey!”

… Though it seems like tonight, only one of them is stopping by.

(Not that you mind _his_ company at all.)

Martha is still in the bathroom, so you skirt behind the counter, grabbing a napkin as Five walks in and seats himself at the corner barstool.

“Where’re your siblings?” you ask, opening the donut case and grabbing an apple fritter.

Five gives you a closed-lipped smile that’s all business and no pleasure. “Sleeping,” he says. He picks up a butter knife and examines it. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah,” you grab a plate and put the fritter on it, “I saw it on the news. Lincoln Memorial in D.C., right?” Sliding the plate toward Five, you lean your elbows on the counter and crack a grimace. “It … looked pretty bad.”

“I’m talking about what happened afterward. D.C. was fine.” Five puts the knife down in favor of the donut. He stares at it, frown set deep onto his face, and takes a bite.

Judging by what you saw on TV this afternoon, you wouldn’t necessarily say D.C. was _fine_ , but your definition of the word is pretty different from his. Nobody had died, so you guess in that respect it was _fine_. You knit your brow. “What do you mean, ‘what happened afterward’? Did any of you get hurt?”

He grunts. “Not on the mission. Dad wasn’t happy with how we did things in D.C., so he had us do extra training once we got back. Klaus threw up on the stairs.”

You gape. “… Is he _okay_?”

“He’ll be fine.” Five tears off a chunk of his donut and pops it into his mouth, tasting it carefully. “It happens more often than you think. And anyway, I’m more concerned about …”

He looks over your shoulder, chewing quietly. You lean in just a little closer.

“About …?”

“You mind getting me a cup of that?” he asks, gesturing to the coffee machine behind you.

You follow his gaze, bewildered. “You want caffeine right _now_?”

“I have work to do after I’m done here.”

That’s probably _the_ vaguest explanation you’ve ever heard. Not that you’re surprised; Five has shared several things about his life with you, but some topics he likes to keep to himself. Briefly, you wonder if you’ll ever completely understand him. You hope so.

In any case, you pour him a mug of coffee.

“Thanks,” Five says when you hand it to him, dipping his fritter into the brew.

You walk around the counter, sitting down next to him. “You’re very welcome. I hope you won’t regret it.”

“I rarely regret anything.” His donut is now half-gone, and you know he means what he says. Exhaling, he looks into his mug and then at you, seeming to contemplate whether he should continue before doing so. “I’m talking about my sister. Vanya.”

Vanya. You search your memories and find her – quiet, doe-eyed, brown hair with bangs. She came in with Five a few months ago, just the two of them, and they didn’t stay for very long. When you had chatted with her, she proved to be very sweet but painfully shy, unused to being out and about. Five had gotten her a plain glazed donut.

“Yeah, she came here with you once.” You tilt your head, eyes narrowing in thought. “She doesn’t have any powers, right?”

Five nods his head once, slowly. “She’s … the black sheep of the family. To put it lightly. Anyway, after dinner today, she showed me this piece she’s been working on for weeks – a violin concerto by Bach.”

“Oh! Good for her.”

“It’s the closest thing she has to a special ability,” he states, not unkindly. “Vanya’s been playing for three years now, and she’s mentioned wanting to play in an orchestra. I figured that since nobody really knows about her, and she’s ordinary, it wouldn’t hurt for her to go out once or twice a week to rehearsals – as long as we had a guard or something to watch her, of course. So I went with her to ask our dad about it.”

You have a feeling how it had gone. “How’d he take it?”

“What do you think?” He smiles tightly, folding his hands. “He said no. It’s too much of a security risk for the academy. And, furthermore, she wouldn’t have time outside of studying and helping out with our training.”

Five grabs his coffee and takes a gulp. You bite your lip, thinking of the small, timid girl that didn’t know how to order a simple donut. What did she do while her siblings were out fighting criminals and doing interviews? Watch them? Stay inside, playing her violin that no one listened to except for Five?

“That sucks,” you murmur, slumping down to rest your chin on your arms. “I’m sorry.”

He puts the mug down with a hard _clink_. “It’s all bullshit, but what can we do? Vanya just accepted it like she usually does.”

“I wish there was a way to convince your dad.”

“Not unless Allison rumors him. But she wouldn’t do that for Vanya.” Inspecting the last bit of his fritter, Five picks it back up and finishes it in one swallow. “Like I said, black sheep.”

He wipes his hand with a napkin, placing it to the left of his plate before looking over at you, pensive. You stare back, fingers busy with the napkin crushed between them, then give him a small smile. Some of his irritation softens.

“… I’m sorry to interrupt, kids, but it’s almost midnight.”

You jump at Martha’s voice. Holy crap, how long had she been there?

The woman glances down at you, eyes crinkling from a grin as she takes Five’s plate. He looks a little miffed by the interruption. “Don’t worry, I know how customers like their privacy. I just wanted to tell you that I can drive you back, hon,” Martha continues, directing the offer to you. “Though Agnes is going to be late for her shift, so you’ll have to wait about a half hour or so.”

“No need.” Five knocks back the rest of his coffee and stands up, handing her a five-dollar bill. “I’ll walk [Y/n] back.”

“Will you?” She takes a moment to gloss over his uniform. “Well, aren’t you a dear. Would you mind going with him, hon? I don’t want you going back later than you have to.”

Five quirks an eyebrow at you when you turn to him. Your face warms unexpectedly. “I … guess so,” you answer as you leave your seat, suddenly awkward for reasons you can’t explain.

“Then that’s settled. I trust you Umbrella kids can keep your charges safe.”

“Of course.” He straightens his tie, nodding at Martha and you before turning to go.

Martha catches your arm. “Here’s something for the road.” She hands you a small paper bag, speckled with grease. You take it gratefully, about to thank her, but then she leans in and your words die on your tongue when she whispers, “Make sure to take his arm when he offers it, hon.”

Discreetly, she _winks_ at you. Your cheeks burn hotter, much to your horror.

“[Y/n]? Are we going or what?”

“Y-Yeah, coming,” you answer, giving Martha a quick hug over the counter and hurrying over to Five, who’s holding the door open. “Bye, Martha.”

“G’night, you two.”

As the two of you pass by the windows of Griddy’s Doughnuts, you look through and see your friend wave, dishcloth in hand and a beam on her face. Her words run through your mind as you wave back. What a weird piece of advice. People don’t offer their arms anymore, and as you sneak a glance at your companion, you wonder if Five would even be the type to do so.

After a few minutes, you find that he isn’t. But he also doesn’t move away when you walk close enough for your hands to touch, and when you reach up, hesitantly, to grasp his sleeve when a car passes by – continuing to hold it until you reach your apartment – he doesn’t say a word. He says goodnight to you, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, when the two of you stand at your door, and he makes sure you get in safely.

And for now, that’s perfectly enough.


	5. on the way to nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 37\. Making sure to be quiet while they’re taking a nap.

Every evening, the sunset reminds Five that the world has ended.

It’s a strange thing to watch in the aftermath of an apocalypse; even after three years, he still hasn’t gotten used to the sight. Maybe he’s just surprised that the Earth’s still turning – round and round and round, a carousel with only two riders. Behind the veil of dust and smoke, the sun glows red as it sinks, staining the sky in a haunting rust of grayish-yellows and blood orange.

Dragging his supply wagon behind him, Five squints forward into the garish horizon and frowns. “It’ll be dark soon,” he says, pulling his scarf over his mouth and nose as a gust of wind picks up dust.

Beside him, you nod. Your own wagon clanks and rattles behind you, less filled with food and water than it had been this morning. “I still don’t see the town.”

He looks down at the faded roadmap in his hands. “We have about thirteen miles to go. Our best bet is to keep walking until we reach it, while it’s getting cooler.” As he speaks, the sun dips lower and lower. No matter. Both your eyes and his will adjust. “It’ll be easier than walking in one-hundred-degree weather tomorrow.”

“… Yeah, that’s a good idea,” you agree.

Your tone, however, makes Five stop and look over at you. You stop in return but don’t meet his gaze, staring instead at the dry emptiness ahead.

“Something wrong?” he prompts.

As if snapped out of a trance, you shake your head quickly. “No. I’m fine, I just –” you jerk your wagon forward again – “I’m just a little tired, that’s all. Let’s go.”

Eyes narrowing, Five quickly catches up and grabs your shoulder. You don’t shake him off. “Hey. If you need a break, we can take one right now and still get there before sunrise.”

You shake your head again. “No,” you insist, “I can keep going until –”

“No, you can’t. Cut the crap,” he retorts. You have a habit of sugarcoating your complaints – something he learned the hard way a few days after meeting you – and he isn’t having any of that today. “Look, take a nap or something and I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go. Deal?”

You grow quiet. Then, finally meeting his eyes, you sigh and nod. “Deal. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me.”

“Then I take it back,” you reply dryly. Five rolls his eyes.

Your shoulder slips out from under his hand as you retrieve a tattered blanket and spare jacket from your wagon, then begin clearing out a space on the ground to lay down on. There’s nothing very meticulous about your work; over time, Five has learned that you can fall asleep quickly and nearly anywhere – convenient for the post-apocalyptic life. It’s like your body takes any chance it can to escape this hell.

Soon enough, you’re satisfied with the arrangement and lie down, hands tucked behind your head. There’s a chunk of space left on one side and Five is surprised when you say his name, reaching down to pat the vacant spot.

“You can sit,” you say, voice soft. The sun is now gone, leaving the darkening sky a chalky, brownish gray that deepens the shadows on your face. (Soon he won’t be able to read your eyes.)

Five obliges silently and sits at the edge next to your legs. Only then does the fatigue from a day’s worth of walking hit him, his sore feet suddenly relieved of work. Neither of you had really taken a break since this afternoon, too focused on finding another place with food and water. It makes him wonder how tired you _actually_ are.

“[Y/n] –” he starts, but closes his mouth when he glances down and sees that your eyes are closed. When he listens, he hears the slowness of your breaths. Yeah, you’ve passed out already. That’s good.

Crossing his legs, Five takes a small sip of water from his canteen while he watches you sleep. Something about this moment, sitting so close to you for no discernable reason other than the fact that you had requested it, fills him with a strange sense of peace. A sense of normalcy.

It’s ridiculous, but it’s also not. You’re the most normal person he’s ever met – no powers, no special talents. Just an ordinary person who didn’t die along with literally everything else on the planet.

He had found that oddly comforting.

He wonders what it would have been like if your aunt hadn’t happened to have powers. You definitely wouldn’t have survived, and he would have landed in the apocalypse completely and utterly alone – nobody to tell him what had happened, nobody to scavenge and travel with. Nobody to talk to. Despite never being very social, Five knows that the solitude would have messed with his head. Running into you was the one good thing that came out of this hellhole.

Out of the blue, he notices how cool the air has gotten. As quietly as he can, Five stands up and goes over to his wagon, taking out his own blanket. He unfurls it carefully, then slinks back over to where you’re dozing. You’re a bit of a light sleeper, so he takes extra care not to be too hasty as he lays the blanket over you, pulling it up to your shoulders.

Suddenly, you shift. Five freezes as you curl up, burrowing under his blanket as you turn onto your side. Only when your breaths even out does he relax.

 _What the hell am I doing_ , he asks himself as he sits back. You could take care of yourself. He didn’t have to do that.

One of your hands peeks out past the edge of the blanket. After a moment of hesitation, Five reaches over and grasps your fingers gently, nudging them back under the cover. Your hand is very warm. He pushes that thought away much more quickly.

He’s not sure what he’ll do once he figures out how to get back. Logically, the best thing to do is to leave you here. Bringing you back to a time before you’re born, or even worse, when you _have_ been born already, could complicate the timeline even more, so it’d be best to go alone.

But then _you’d_ be alone.

Five continues to stare at you, trying to make out the minute details of your face in the darkness. He’s gotten attached to you. And sure, that’s fine for now – maybe even good – but farther down the line, it’s going to bite him in the ass. He’d never forgive himself for leaving you to die.

You probably would. You’re that much of an optimist.

“… Five? Should we go now?”

Your voice, hoarse and sleepy, causes him to shake his head and clear it enough to respond. “Ten more minutes. Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, patting your shoulder once.

“Oh, thank goodness.”

Within seconds of saying that, you drowse off again. Five shuts his eyes and releases an inaudible sigh, then opens them again to look up at the black, starless sky. Goddammit.

He hopes you’ll understand when he goes.


	6. polk salad annie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 49\. Giving them a tight hug that makes them lose their breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

Five had botched the equations somehow.

You tug your suit jacket more tightly around yourself, peering into the flurry of snow as your muscles scream in protest against the sudden cold. This is really bad. You’re _definitely_ nowhere near the academy where Five said he had grown up; in fact, from what you can see through the white haze of winter, you’re not even in a city. There’s just a lonely stretch of road flanked by snowbanks on either side.

“Sh-Sh- _Shit_ ,” you hiss, a shiver wracking your body. Your body – oh, for the love of time, don’t even mention the de-aging. This is really, _really_ bad.

Hypothermia on the forefront of your mind, you tug the collar of your dress shirt up to your nose and stumble onto the empty highway, walking as quickly as you can. You use your other hand to wipe the snowflakes from your eyelashes and then look up at the sky. At the very least, it’s not the middle of the night. There’s got to be _some_ traffic coming back and forth.

You start losing hope after ten minutes. Not long after, you start to feel a little dizzy. You press two fingers over your carotid, but they’re too numb to feel a pulse. Your lungs feel stiff.

But just when you’ve resigned yourself to freezing to death, the sound of tires over snow reaches your ears.

Twin headlights of a vehicle shine through the blizzard and onto you like two, warm suns. _Finally_. With a thankful sigh, you stagger towards the bumper as the pick-up honks and slows to a stop.

A big, burly man steps out. “God’s sake, kiddo, what are you doing out here?”

—

What happens next rivals that of the thrillers you used to read. The guy that picks you up is loud and friendly. He brings you to the nearest town, but the Temps drop by and he gets caught in the crossfire. After taking care of the agents (and flushing the newly discovered tracker from your arm down the toilet) you swap some licenses and take your late rescuer’s truck – something necessary but also something you’ll always regret – and spend the first half of 1982 driving across New England and the Midwest in search of a briefcase, laying as low as you can. It’s something you’re certainly used to; at the Commission, while Five was good at getting out of situations, you had a talent for avoiding them in the first place. It was why you were partners.

(Five. You know he has an uncanny knack for staying alive, but not a day goes by where you don’t hope he’s okay.)

In July, you get a lead in Milwaukee and find yourself at some Wisconsin Polka Association festival.

“Oh, aren’t you a killer in those clothes! You really should check out the ballroom, sweetheart. They’re teaching people your age how to polka dance.”

“No, thank you,” you decline, smiling politely and extracting yourself from the grip of the couple that had whisked you away for a costume change. (It really is weird and mildly off-putting, being coddled by people only a few years older than you.) “I have to go find my mom.”

“Are you _sure_? Our grandkids are in there.”

After a minute or so of assuring the two members that yes, you’ll check out the polka dancing later, and no, they don’t have to help you find your (non-existent) mom, you check your pamphlet and head toward the next place on your search list: the Muskellunge Banquet Room. Better check it out as quickly as possible.

Turning a corner, you spot the entrance at the end of the hall.

However, you also see a boy attacking a vending machine and swearing his mouth off.

“Stupid mother Fudge Nutter! Fuckin’ Fudge Nutter –”

Okay, maybe you have a _little_ time.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” you call out, jogging over. You pull him back before he can kick the glass.

The kid immediately yanks his arm away, sneering at you. You stifle a snort. A quick glance has you wondering why he has a schoolboy uniform on – you don’t see _that_ every day in America, especially during summer break. Weird.

“Calm down, Yosemite.” You smile. “Did something get stuck in there?”

“What the hell do you think?” he snaps, eyes wild as he turns to stomp away. “God, I ask for _one thing_ –”

“Wait.” You grab his arm again and dig some coins out of your pocket. Good thing you have quarters left over from gas. “Here, I have some extra change. Fudge Nutter, right?”

While the boy glares, straightening his jacket, you stick the coins into the vending machine and enter the code for the Fudge Nutter bars. _F-6._ The action feels nostalgic – you remember when Five had bailed you out of a stuck vending machine snack once, during an assignment in 1999 Seattle. He had finally begun warming up to you by then. You still owe him money for that.

The coils whir, and two chocolate bars drop into the pick-up box. You bend down and collect the treasure, holding one out towards the boy.

“One for you, one for me.”

Considerably calmer, he only looks at you suspiciously before slowly taking the Fudge Nutter from your hand. The expression is screamingly familiar. You find yourself wondering; it could be completely possible, perhaps, that –

The boy stalks off. Rude little brat.

“Holy shit, kid, a thank you is in order,” you exclaim, running after him. Coincidentally, he’s heading toward the banquet hall, and you hope you won’t have to worry about him while you’re skulking around in there for an agent. “I didn’t have to bail you out.”

“I am decades older than you, so don’t call me _kid_.” When you reach the end of the hallway, he stops and scowls at you. “Now stop following me. I have something I need to do.”

“Sorry to break it to you, _kid_ , but so do I,” you snap, any goodwill you had scrounged out of respect for Five quickly fading away. Now a little pissed, you hold the boy’s gaze with equal vitriol. “So you better –”

And just like that, it clicks. 

Your eyes widen as you cut yourself off.

“… Five?”

Recognition fills the boy’s face. “[Y/n]?”

“Holy _shit_.”

You drop your candy bar, throwing your arms around him and crushing him against you. It’s _him_. Holy shit. Five stiffens as you bury your face into his shoulder with a half-crazed laugh, then tentatively hugs you back. His grip tightens within seconds of doing so.

Finally, you let go. “How’d you find me?” you murmur after regaining your breath, searching his gaze. How did you not notice it was him sooner? His eyes are exactly the same.

“Honestly, I had no idea you were here,” he replies. (… Ah, so it was luck. You’ll take it any time.) Looking past you, Five walks toward the fire axe mounted on the wall and takes it down. “I’m here on business.”

At the mention of business, your smile fades into a bewildered frown. “Five. Are you – are you working for the Commission again?”

“No.” He positions the axe over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Quite the opposite, actually. The board of directors is meeting here.”

Ah. _That_ kind of business.

Picking your Fudge Nutter back up, you tuck it into your pocket. “Well, in that case – mind if I join?” you ask.

A brief smirk forms on Five’s face to match yours. He gestures his head toward the banquet hall, and you fall into step with him like you had so many times before.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	7. family outing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 29\. Tucking their hair behind their ear to help them get it out of their face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mild swearing

“So,” Vanya’s brow furrows, “Five met you after the apocalypse?”

“Yep.” Leaning against her car, you cross your arms and sigh dreamily. “Hate at first sight. He almost shot me in the head.”

“… With a _gun_?”

You grin. “Well, he couldn’t’ve shot me with a Twinkie.”

Vanya looks ahead at where Five is talking to some middle-aged guy, his expression friendly and polite. What a businessman. Her eyes narrow in shocked disbelief. “This is crazy,” she murmurs. “My family is crazy.”

Your grin widens as she shakes her head. Something about her mannerisms helps you realize why Five is so fond of her, though he’s never said it outright. She’s definitely _your_ favorite of the bunch. Sans murderous intent.

“Some types of crazy can be good,” you reply, nudging her arm. “But your family’s got all of them and it’s gonna get real messy. Time to spice up your little farm life, Vanya.”

She chuckles a little awkwardly and shrugs. “I just hope I’ll have time to talk to them. Again, I mean. Maybe I’ll remember something when we’re all together.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Noticing Five bidding farewell to the man, you push yourself off the bumper and wave at him. “Any luck, Five?”

He points down the street behind you as he walks back over. “Plano Street Rooming House for Solitary Men,” he answers. “It’s just a few blocks from here.”

“How do you know he’s there?” Vanya asks.

“I really doubt Luther would live anywhere else.”

You snort, raising your hands in surrender when Five returns it with a semi-faux withering look. With a sigh, he shakes his head and opens the rear passenger door, gesturing for you to get in.

As Vanya starts the car and turns into the street, you look through the rearview mirror at Five as he tells her where to go. Despite being stuck in a thirteen-year-old body, he still has that resting glower of his that makes him look perpetually stressed. 

(Of course, it’s not just a matter of _looking_ stressed – he is _definitely_ stressed. Wound up tighter than a spring. You’ll probably need to force him to sit down and relax for at least a half-hour tonight before he explodes.)

His hair is a little disheveled, so you reach over to brush it out of his eyes. It doesn’t really work, but just going through the familiar motion grounds you somehow. “You know,” you muse as Five glances back at you, “Luther’s probably living there, but I doubt he’ll be in right now. He’s probably with Ruby somewhere.”

“Even if he is, we can ask around. I assume that at least one person there knows his business.”

He absently lifts a hand to smooth his hair back, and you smile. “Good point.”

—

“Hello, do you know Luther Hargreeves by any chance?”

After some door-to-door work, someone from Luther’s hall finally answers your knock. He’s a burly man, though not nearly as big as Luther, and obviously drunk off his rocker. Definitely solitary. He squints at the three of you through red, puffy eyes.

“Luther? Yeahhh, I know ‘im. Huge bloke. Real hairy.”

“That’s the one,” Five confirms. “You see, we’re his brother and sister. He hasn’t visited home lately and we’re pretty worried, so we’re just wondering if you know where he is.”

Burly picks at his teeth. “Brother n’ sister, eh? Well,” he rumbles, “I dunno where he _is_ , but I know some of the boys are gonna watch ‘im fight tonight.”

“Where’s the fight?” Vanya asks.

The man regards her with suspicion. “Well, it ain’t a place for a little lady like you.” He swirls his beer around in its bottle, then jabs a finger at all of you. “Don’t want you three squealing to the cops, either.”

“We won’t,” you assure him, smiling sweetly. “We just want to check on Luther.”

With a little more cajoling, you finally obtain the time and place for Luther’s fight before the man waves you away with a grunt, slamming his door shut. You give your companions a self-satisfied grin before descending the staircase back down to street level. Worked like a charm. (You suspect your youthful looks probably helped a lot, though.)

“How’d you do that?” Vanya wonders as the three of you step out onto the sidewalk.

“Simple,” you respond. “I have a knack for sweeping tough guys off their feet.”

You wink secretly at Five. He rolls his eyes, the minutest of smiles at the corner of his mouth, before ushering you and Vanya back to the Chevy.

Your little trio spends the next few hours driving and poking around, looking for Luther or Klaus or Allison. The optimist in you hopes you’ll run across at least one of them. But Dallas is a big place, and darkness begins to fall around 5:30 without a single sighting.

“Dammit.” Five clicks his tongue as you exit a paint shop alone.

“At least we know where Luther will be,” you point out, shoving your hands in your pockets. “How about we get something to eat before we head to the fight?”

Vanya unlocks the car. “There’s a place I know close by,” she says, lips quirking up. “They have sandwiches and donuts there.”

You pat her back. “Sounds great, Vanya. Five? You’ve got to eat something, too.”

Your favorite number crosses his arms as you and Vanya stare at him expectantly. “We’ll get something quick,” he eventually says.

The trip only takes a few minutes. The three of you get sandwiches and a donut each and unwrap them on the bench outside the bakery.

“Sissy and Harlan and I get something from here whenever we go into town,” Vanya says, finishing the last of her sandwich and picking her donut up. “It’s pretty good.”

“So good,” you agree. Lands alive, sitting out here like this makes you nostalgic. Ignoring the upcoming doomsday and the ‘60′s aesthetic, it feels like you’re back in 1927 again, staying out past curfew with your peers. You smile to yourself and look down at your half-finished maple bar. Best to enjoy it while it lasts.

A finger quickly sweeps your brow, tucking a lock of hair out of your face. You blink and glance over at Five, but he’s looking across the street and starting on his own pastry. (Apple fritter. Perhaps you’ll ask him one day why he always gets those.)

Heart feeling even softer than before, you lean silently against his side. He doesn’t move.

After a moment, Five speaks up. “When we were kids, I brought you to this donut shop near the academy a couple times.”

“You did?” Vanya asks.

“Yeah. Griddy’s.” _Oh, the one near the academy. The one that had gotten destroyed along with everything else in 2019._ He gestures at the last bit of donut – plain, glazed – in her hands. “You usually got that kind.”

She raises her eyebrows, looking into her napkin. “Oh, wow. I guess it must’ve been a subconscious choice or something, then.”

“Hm.”

“You know, I’m glad we found you, Vanya,” you offer warmly. “I didn’t … really have time to get to know you the last time we met.”

A smile spreads across her face. “Same here. For both things, I mean. Not that I’d know much about our first meeting.” She pauses, examining you for a second, then blurts, “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

She awkwardly motions between you and her brother. “Are you and Five …?”

“Partners,” you finish, “in every sense of the word. From what I know, at least.” With a grin, you turn to Five. “Is that more or less right?”

He rolls his eyes fondly. “Unfortunately,” he mutters as you move to smooth his hair back again. He sure had lovely hair when he was a kid – not that you didn’t appreciate his looks back in your Commission days. This de-aging thing really knocks you for a loop sometimes.

Vanya nods, still looking vaguely confused. “Okay. I don’t want to make things weird, I just – well, you two are kind of … young –”

“Believe me, we’re much older than we look,” you quip, standing up. “But that’s a tale for another time. We gotta go.”

Disposing of your trash, you join the others into the Chevy and start your next journey to Luther Hargreeves. Radio turned off, the leather seat squeaks as you lean back and listen to Vanya and Five murmuring in the front.

To see the siblings together again makes you glow inside, a bit of calm before the inevitable storm. You drink it in as much as you can.


	8. spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 45\. Rubbing the back of their hand with a thumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: swearing, underage drinking

If time travelling and scavenging a post-apocalyptic grocery store have anything in common, it’s that they are both utter crapshoots. Every town comes with a renewed concern of whether the two of you will find anything of substance; amid the searing heat or freezing cold, the mess of concrete and glass, and the mere passing of time, it’s considered a good day if you unearth a can or two of vegetables or a smashed box of cereal.

Suffice to say, it’s an absolutely shit deal. Five hates having to look for food. But he landed himself in this hellhole, so what else is he supposed to do? Die? Not until he’s exhausted every other option to get back. He’s not letting Dad have the last word just because he starved to death.

At least you’re here to help.

“Five! Five, come over here.”

The excitement in your voice causes him to look up from the dried puddle of soup he’d nearly stepped into. Squinting in the harsh sunlight, Five spots you holding something up from across the collapsed building. It looks like a bottle of some kind.

Blinking over, he masks his surprise when he sees your discovery up close. “Huh,” he mutters, taking the unopened bottle to read the label. Vodka. “I’m surprised it stayed intact.”

“Me too.” A hesitant smile crawls across your face. “Do you want to try it after supper tonight?”

Five’s almost taken aback by the anticipation on your face, so different from your recent solemnity. He wonders whether you’ve drunk before. As for himself, he had tried it once years ago, when Klaus had invited everyone to try one of his first “cocktails,” but it was the worst thing he’d ever poured into his mouth.

He’s inclined to believe that this may be better, however. It had been a shitty week. The two of you could indulge, being the only people left in the world.

“Why not,” Five says, and you glow as you place it into your wagon.

—

Supper is canned sardines and canned corn heated over a fire, which is the best you’ve both had for the past few days. Being picky has no place here. You split both items fifty-fifty and eat them slowly, sitting close to the flames with enough space between the two of you, as per usual.

As soon as you’ve finished your share, you look over at him. “I’ll get the bottle,” you announce, standing up.

Five watches as you pluck the vodka from your stash and come back just as quickly, sitting just a little closer than before. “You seem eager,” he points out dryly.

He has half a mind to feel somewhat regretful for his words, despite him being right, when your bright expression dims. Nevertheless, you unscrew the cap. “I just want to try it,” you reply, not meeting his eyes and placing the cap down beside you. “And relax. It’s the end of the world.”

With that, you tilt the bottle towards him, and he stares down at the colorless liquid sloshing around inside. The smell reminds him of when Diego had knocked Allison’s nail polish remover all over the living room carpet – not meant for savoring at all. Medicinal, almost. But you’re right; it’s the end of the world. What the hell.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the bottle. Grasp firm around the glass neck, he brings it to his lips and swallows what he assumes is enough for a shot.

God, shit. It burns. He takes another sip and then passes it back to you, hoping the effect will be quick.

You gulp some of the alcohol down before coughing. “It’s spicy,” you murmur when he frowns, catching himself before he reaches out. Clearing your throat, you try a little more.

It doesn’t take too long – Five thinks – before he starts to feel quite warm. Light, too. It feels nice. The bottle isn’t big, so the two of you finish its contents and leave it beside you.

“I should’ve done this sooner,” he mutters, slumping against the wall of the half-destroyed building. He looks over at you, at the serene smile gracing your face, and he feels even warmer. God, he’s glad you’re here. It makes everything feel a little less like the end of the fucking world.

“Told you it’d –” you squirm to get more comfortable, a giggle bubbling up from your throat, and he likes it, it sounds good – “make you feel better. I was right.”

“You didn’t tell me that. You said it’d make _you_ relaxed.”

“Oh. Right.” You smile.

“Y’know what’s funny?” Five ponders, staring at your eyes as they gleam. You hum. “I always thought my brother was stupid when he started drinking his issues away. But now I’m trying it and it,” he gestures vaguely, “it sort of works. Isn’t it funny?”

You snort. “Kinda …”

Your head tips back to look at the night sky, and he finds his gaze falling to the ground between the two of you as you sigh. Your hand rests there, inches from his, palm up and dusty and _close_. An urge buzzes through the back of his mind.

“My aunt loved drinking vodka,” you murmur, eyelids drooping. “And my dad hated it when she did because she did it all the time when she visited. I think.”

“The one with powers?” he asks, mildly interested but still, for some reason, preoccupied with how the fire casts your hand in yellow light.

You nod languidly. “They fought a lot … but I don’t think my dad hated her, because she … she kept visiting. With her vodka. Ha.”

Your eyes drop to the thin space left between your hand and his. _No. Yes. Maybe._

 _Just this once_.

“I miss my family so so much,” you mumble, clumsily reaching for his fingers. “Do you miss yours?”

He accepts your touch and holds on. His family, shit. Yeah, he misses them. He couldn’t stand them sometimes. But he _misses_ them a lot – Vanya and Ben and Klaus and Allison and Diego and Luther and Mom and Pogo and –

Does he miss Dad, too?

“I’m gonna get back to them,” he replies, quiet, confused by his thoughts for the first time in his life. He can’t forget Dad, even with the alcohol. Does that mean he misses him? He doesn’t _want_ to. His father doesn’t deserve to be missed.

Your thumb runs over the back of his hand, and Five closes his eyes, starting to feel drowsy. He’ll deal with Dad later. Maybe it would be fine to sleep like this – next to you, holding your hand. You whisper his name like it’s the last thing you’ll ever say. He likes the way you say it. He wants to sleep so badly.

“You will,” you tell him, palm flush against his own, thumb running over his skin again. Again. “You gotta save the world with them.”

“Yeah.”

It feels nice. Warm. He keeps your hand in his as his head falls to his chest, thoughts of his family and thoughts of you blurring through his head like a lullaby, your breath regular and alive. He’ll find a way to fix this.

He’s gotta save you too.


	9. vector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 38\. Letting them warm their cold hands under your shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: swearing, implied/referenced child abuse

Magnets function better at low temperatures. And obviously, you want to function better.

But after sitting on the balcony for who knows how long, wrangling with the pile of spoons and paperclips and refrigerator magnets in front of you, you still can’t get your stupid powers to cooperate for more than ten minutes.

It’s so cold. You want to go inside.

“Come _on_.” Shaking out the numbness in your hands, you pick up a tablespoon for the fortieth time, pressing the tip of it to your index finger. Anxiety churns in your gut as you start the stopwatch with your other hand.

 _Beep._ The numbers run underneath the dim lamplight.

“Stay, stay, stay, stay …”

You whisper the word like a mantra, concentrating every last bit of energy towards the end of your finger. The first minute or two is fine, but after the stopwatch hits _07:36:27,_ your hold starts to weaken.

 _10:54:01_. The spoon clatters painfully back onto the table.

“Dammit.” You stop the timer, forcing back the sting behind your eyes. There’s a rattle as the door opens; unable to meet Sir Hargreeves’ eyes, you stare down at your traitorous hands. Your bones ache. “I’m sorry, I’ll get it soon. Just … give me more time –”

“Any more time and you’ll get frostbite.”

_That’s not –_

You look up. Five stands in the doorway, regarding you with an unreadable expression.

“I’d call it a night if I were you,” he says.

“I,” you stammer, both relieved and more mortified than if it had been his father, “I can’t go inside until I –”

“Get it to stick for more than fifteen minutes, I know.” Though his tone isn’t scathing or mocking, you still flinch at the reminder. He glances at the mess of things lying on the table. “It’s been two hours, so you might as well come back inside.”

You swallow. As per usual, he has a point – you don’t think you’ll be able to improve much more today, either. But you could try one more time before asking – begging – Sir Hargreeves for an extension.

(He probably won’t give it to you, but you’re fortunate enough to have that possibility in and of itself, with your mom being so involved and all. You’re – what was it she called you? – an investment. One with a slow return in terms of powers, apparently.)

“[Y/n].” Five steps out onto the balcony.

A breeze passes through. Shivering violently, you manage a grin to pair with his frown. “I need to stay out here until I get it right. I almost have it, Five. Seriously.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I _do_.” You sit up straighter and clench your hands in your lap, trying to be more offended because you still have pride, dammit, and falling short of expectations _again_ threatens what little is left of it. Five just scoffs.

“ _No_ , you –” The boy cuts himself off when his voice begins to raise, closing his eyes for a second. When he reopens them, they’re the slightest bit softer. “Look,” Five says tightly, “the temperature’s still dropping and it’s dark. Dad’s gone out, anyway.”

“Where’d he go?” you ask quietly.

Five’s gaze remains steady, but his jaw clenches a little. “He took Klaus out to the mausoleum.”

Any warmth still lingering in your body leaves as soon as he mentions his brother. You stare at Five with wide eyes.

Klaus’s weekly trips to the tombs are nothing new to you. But a few weekends ago, he had gotten even more anxious about it than usual and drugged himself into a near coma right before going, rendering his powers – and that trip – practically null. As a result, Sir Hargreeves had started choosing random nights and times to haul him over there.

The most you’ve been able to do is see Klaus off at the front steps. Tonight, you hadn’t even done that.

Guilt fills the pit of your stomach.

“If I had just _finished_ my training –”

“Stop,” Five interrupts. “Don’t blame yourself, alright? Just get inside.”

Blinking away an embarrassing blur of tears, you study his face. Behind the stern features is concern.

“… Please,” he says.

So, with a large exhale, breath escaping in a white cloud of vapor, you nod and slowly stand up. Five steps aside to let you into the house and closes the door behind him.

The difference in temperature is huge. Looking to your right into the living room, you see a fire burning merrily in the fireplace, its glow bright and incredibly _warm_. A furious shiver wracks your bones at the thought, reminding you where you had just been.

“When do you think he’ll be back?” you ask Five, catching your breath.

“Well, who knows.” He heads toward the couch. Without much of a thought as to why, you follow, sitting down right beside him. “Could be an hour, could be the whole night.”

“I hope it’s not the whole night,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around yourself and sinking back into the thick cushions. As you stare into the fire, you think you see Klaus and his ghosts in the flames. “That’s way too long.”

Trying to focus some feeling back into your limbs, you glance over at Five. He crosses his arms, watching the wood fall apart into chunks of red coal before meeting your eyes. You shiver again.

“You’re not warming up?” he questions.

You smile, shrugging weakly. “I think it’s the magnetism thing. I don’t warm up easy.”

Unfolding your arms, you cup your hands around your mouth and blow into them. It only helps a little. Klaus’s hugs usually help a lot.

You wish you could give him a hug right now.

“Do you need a blanket or something?”

“A blanket?” Idly, you blow again. “Yeah, I guess. But … someone warm is usually better.”

“Klaus,” he says plainly.

“Yeah.”

Someone warm. You lower your hands, a delayed thought finally rolling into the station. And that thought makes you feel shameful again because Klaus is, after all, locked up in the freezing cold with the dead, and you have the privilege of having good company – Five’s company – in the warmth of the Hargreeves mansion. The idea doesn’t seem right. You don’t deserve to get comfortable right now.

But … you wouldn’t want Klaus to stay cold if he could help it, would you?

“Five –” still fighting the persistent guilt, solemn but hopeful, you shift to face him better on the couch, “um, would you mind …?”

He just looks at you suspiciously. You fold your still-cold hands, and for the first time, you feel slightly awkward in his presence.

_Why?_

The silence is deafening. But then Five twists his mouth as if tasting something odd but not entirely unpleasant, and without even a word, he parts his uniform jacket to let you sneak your hands underneath. You take the opportunity instantly.

And oh –

Your hunch is very, very correct. Five is _warm_. Sliding your arms around his middle, you press your hands against his back, closing your eyes as heat soaks into your skin like a salve. The relief is immediate and cozy and _wonderful_. 

Unable to help it, you release a contented sigh into his sweater vest. Five exhales softly, shallowly; his hands hover over you before tentatively lowering to rest on your back. You can almost feel his heartbeat.

This hug feels different than the other ones, somehow. You haven’t the slightest idea why.

(But you like it a _lot_.)

“You good?”

“Just – just a little longer, Five.”

“… Okay.”

(It makes you feel selfish.) 

Minutes pass, and bit by bit, Five settles back into the couch. Eventually, voice nearly lost in the hiss of the fire, he murmurs, “He’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” you mumble. The last thing that stands out clearly in your mind is the wish that Five will be right.

When you open your eyes again, tucked into your own bed, it’s morning.


	10. french press

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 48\. Getting them a coffee just the way they like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

Five is a man of simple tastes. Always has been. He’s never asked for needless things because they are exactly that, and even as a child, he had found the idea of chasing extravagance a waste of time.

Five is a man of simple tastes.

But he’d rather stick his head inside a wasp nest than drink instant coffee two nights in a row.

“If you don’t breathe when you drink it, it tastes less like dirt,” you say from your bed, a Styrofoam cup in one hand and the kill order in the other. When he looks up from loading his gun, you lift your cup in a toast. “How about it, Five?”

“I’ll pass,” he replies sardonically.

“But what about your withdrawals?”

“I don’t get any.”

A pause. “I have some aspirin, you know. For headaches.”

Five returns your smile with a close-lipped one of his own, slamming the magazine into place. “Good for you.”

You just hum, maintaining eye contact with him as you down the rest of your beverage. To his mild satisfaction, your smile morphs into a grimace at the taste. 

Good.

“Deaux should be getting back from the bar by now.” He looks over the log the two of you had written yesterday. “You remember the plan?”

You toss your cup into the trash. “Of course. Home invasion.” Your tone flattens into something more serious – as it usually does when you talk about work. You check your pistol and tuck it into your holster. “Should be in-and-out. He’ll be drunk as a skunk.”

And dead as a doornail. “You’re driving this time?”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” you say.

Five rolls his eyes as you give him a cheeky grin. After making sure everything’s been gathered up – which isn’t much of a task, given how little either of you possess – Five checks the two of you out of the motel and heads down to the car.

As he settles into the passenger seat, Commission briefcase at his feet and rifle case in his lap, you put the keys into the ignition and turn on the radio. Classical music – the one genre you both agree on.

(It’s a violin concerto and he thinks of Vanya.)

Your fingers drum the wheel softly in time with the music. “I love driving through small towns at night,” you murmur, exiting the decrepit parking lot. “There’s no hassle at all …”

He just grunts in acknowledgement, eyeing you while you flip the signal to turn. A kind of lightness sticks to your expression like plaster; Five indulges in contemplating it for a moment. For someone who’s worked for the Commission for almost thirty years, you’ve never struck him as the assassin type in between assignments. You’re too genuine. Too friendly.

You’re damn good at compartmentalizing, he’ll give you that.

You brake at the stop sign right before the street where Deaux lives. No cars are in sight. The violinist starts a series of runs.

“That coffee was terrible.”

“’Shit’ would be more accurate.”

You snort.

By the time the house comes into view, the concerto isn’t anywhere near finished, so he turns it down to the lowest volume and waits for it to cut off along with the engine. Dead quiet. This is the best part, Five thinks to himself – the calm before the storm.

Next to him, you straighten your jacket. The weak moonlight casts your face in an eerie glow. “Doing the honors this time?” you murmur, getting your mask from the back.

“Sure,” he responds.

As Five exits the car and approaches the front door with you, he disregards, with irritation, the warnings of a headache. Son of a bitch. He can deal with it.

—

Drunk as a skunk, dead as a doornail – killing Jean Deaux is the easiest assignment the two of you have had all week. After taking the toaster and some other things of relative value, you throw them into the trunk of the car, drive it into the woods, and then head to 1985 Chicago for your next assignment.

The time travel turns what should’ve been a minor headache into a goddamn migraine. The jetlag hits him right after, so when Five opens the door to your shared room, he pulls his hat off and takes the nearest bed. It’s about two in the morning. He has some time to nap it off.

However, when he hears you dump the briefcase onto your bed and start towards the door, he summons enough energy to say your name. “Where are you going?” he grouses.

You wave him back. “To get a lay of the land,” you say, keeping your voice low. “You go get some shut-eye.”

Your words make him grimace inside. He doesn’t need your pity. But for once, Five doesn’t have the energy to go back and forth with you, so he simply grunts and allows his eyes to close again. The door clicks as you leave.

The next thing he knows, he smells coffee.

“Morning again, partner.”

Your voice sounds very close. When Five opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is your face just a foot away from his.

“Jesus Christ.” He sits up, swearing more when his head protests it violently.

“Nope, just me.” You smile as he rubs his face. “But I do have coffee. The real kind.”

That’s when he notices the steaming cup in your hand that says _Ivy’s Café_ on the cardboard sleeve. You offer it to him, and after scrutinizing you for an ulterior motive – it’s still instinctive after forty odd years, though in the back of his mind, he knows you’re simply being yourself – he takes it.

You open your other hand to reveal two small, round pills. Meeting your knowing gaze only briefly, he takes them as well.

“Thanks,” he mutters, chasing down the aspirin with a gulp of coffee.

As soon as the first drop hits his tongue, Five wonders where _Ivy’s Café_ is. His eyebrows pinch together as he swallows. Smooth and rich, hot but not scalding. No sugar, no cream. 

Exactly the way he likes it.

“I know I’m enabling your coffee addiction, but –” you shrug as he takes another sip – “we don’t have the luxury of quitting.”

“Coffee or the Commission?”

Your smile becomes slightly cynical. “Both, I guess.”

Five huffs out an equally dry chuckle, filing your answer away for later. To his relief, the throbbing in his head is starting to wane.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “I’m guessing I did right by the coffee.”

“You did.”

“Their croissants look good, too. Not as good as the ones in France, but still up there.” You stand up, swiping the kill order from the nightstand to skim over it. “We’re not so crunched for time anymore, so we could go there for lunch.”

The stream of coffee abruptly tapers off. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he murmurs, narrowing his eyes at the empty cup. He blinks over to the trashcan to throw it away.

“Great. It’s a date, then.”

 _What_. When he turns around, giving you a stiff look, you wave your hands dismissively.

“In a completely platonic sense, of course,” you amend.

“Are you ready to go?” Five finds it appropriate to change the subject, not liking the way your words ring in his mind. You know about Dolores. He’s not interested at all, if that is what you’re implying.

Your hands lower. “… Yeah, I’m ready.” He looks in the mirror to adjust his tie, and after a moment, your reflection approaches his. “Look,” you say, “I’m sorry about that comment. I didn’t mean to offend.”

Five holds your gaze, smoothing his tie out, and the guilt in your expression causes him to sigh. You really are too genuine. “Just don’t do it again,” he replies, less brusque than before. “Let’s just put some hours in before lunch.”

Ruefulness touches the corners of your smile. You nod. Five nods back, and as the two of you leave the motel room, he thinks, no, it won’t be a date. His loyalty still lies with someone else, and you’re his business partner and that’s how it should be. Simple as that.

But he’ll pay for lunch. It’s only fair.


	11. the weekend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 11\. Telling them a dumb joke just to see their smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

You had learned quickly after getting Mr. Pennycrumb that Five is a dog person.

“He doesn’t like you. Give him to me.”

“He _likes_ me.” You hold onto the squirming pup, grunting as he slips out of your arms anyway to nose at Five’s shoulder. The smug look on the boy’s face causes you to huff. “You know, I feel like you only came here to visit my dog.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t to visit you,” he deadpans.

Mr. Pennycrumb’s tail wags as Five scratches behind his ear. _Traitor_. You consider pushing Five off the bed, solely on principle, but decide against it when Mr. Pennycrumb crawls into his lap – the _smallest_ of smiles touches Five’s face, and you find yourself liking it a little too much.

“Please, I’m an absolute _delight_.” You uncross your legs and lean against the wall, staring pointedly at your thick cabin socks. Perhaps you could buy a whole bunch of them for the siblings as a post-birthday present.

“That’s debatable.”

You make a face at him. “If you keep being rude, I’ll take away your Mr. Pennycrumb privileges,” you sniff. Funnily enough, the mock threat seems to hold some weight, as Five only meets your eyes for a moment before returning to his annotations, one hand resting on Mr. Pennycrumb’s head. “Anyway, we’re off task again. Did you choose one yet?”

Five turns a page. “… I don’t know.”

The frown in his voice causes you to frown yourself. You look over at him in surprise – of all the things you know Five to be, indecisive is not one of them.

“Really?” you ask, leaning over slightly to see the names. “Don’t you have a few that you like more than the others?”

“They’re all second choices at best,” he murmurs. “None of them stand out.”

Your dog gazes up imploringly at Five, but he’s too absorbed in his thoughts to notice this time. You reach out to stroke Mr. Pennycrumb’s neck while you squint at the list. “What, you don’t like …” you skim down the first column, “Archibald? That sounds super British.”

Five looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. Fair enough. You shrug defensively and reread the names, more carefully this time. The only name he’s marked across these two pages is Elliott (the one with two t’s), which is _okay_ but not your favorite.

What would be a good name? Felix? Harvey? _Patrick_?

You chew the inside of your cheek. He’s right. None of these names really sound like – well, _Five_.

“Why don’t we take a break?” you suggest after a few minutes, scooting off the bed and standing up. “Maybe some cookies will help.”

He hums, running a finger down the next page. “What kind?”

“Chocolate chip.” You beckon Mr. Pennycrumb, who finally responds after you call his name a couple times; he jumps into your arms and you beam triumphantly, kissing the side of his furry head. “Mr. Pennycrumb can’t have any, but we can give him some apple slices. Does that sound good, Mr. P? You wanna treat?”

Mr. Pennycrumb yaps and licks your cheek. What a perfect puppy. You love him so much.

( _Who’s the favorite now, Five?_ )

You hear a telltale suction of air as you leave the bedroom, and when you enter the kitchen, you see Five digging a knife into an apple.

“Showoff,” you quip, setting your dog down and grabbing the Tupperware of cookies you’d left on the counter. You fetch two glasses – the stout, fancier-looking glasses that are really for whiskey, but your dad’s not around and they’re the only ones you can properly dunk whole cookies in – and the milk as well. “He’s got you wrapped around his paw, you know.”

Five just clicks his tongue, bending down to feed an apple chunk to Mr. Pennycrumb, who eagerly snatches it up. “I’m rewarding good behavior,” he mutters.

“Him just existing is good behavior?”

“I don’t see why not.” He shaves off another slice, watching intently as the puppy crunches on the fruit. “Some find it pretty difficult.”

That was … really deep. You tilt your head and puff your cheeks, pouring milk into Five’s glass. “Dang,” you say. What a smart cookie.

Ha. Cookie.

“That’s good enough,” Five speaks up when the glass is three-quarters full, and you almost fumble the carton when you realize that he’s already sitting in the chair next to yours. He slides the glass over to himself and grabs a cookie. “Thanks.”

You nod and pour some milk for yourself, stopping halfway. Five hands you a cookie once you sit down and you thank him as well, propping it up inside your glass to soak a little. It fits perfectly, and while waiting, you glance over at Five.

Unlike you, he breaks his cookie into halves over his glass and dips one in milk before eating it. Methodical and efficient. No crumbs at all.

(If he notices you staring, he doesn’t mention it.)

“So,” you fish your cookie out, stuffing it into your mouth before it falls apart, “it’s just you and Six who haven’t chosen a name yet, right?”

“No. Six chose Ben last night.”

“Oh, for real?” You consider it, picturing the quiet, bookish brother. He _does_ look like a Ben, now that you think about it. “Huh, I like it. Suits him.”

“It was a good choice,” he agrees, finishing the other half of his cookie.

As Five reaches for another one, Mr. Pennycrumb bumps your ankle, begging for scraps. You look down and pet his back with your foot, and before you even have to ask, Five slides the apple and knife over to you.

“Thank you, Elliott.”

 _Nope_.

You cough to cover up your laugh. Five makes an expression that can only be described as ‘no.’

“Sorry, I was testing it out,” you say hurriedly, getting to work on cutting the apple up. Five just shakes his head and drinks some of his milk, and when you finally regain enough control to see the judgement in his face again without snickering, you manage a pout. “What?”

He raises an eyebrow, breaking his cookie apart. “Well, you narrowed down my list.”

“Happy to help,” you say as solemnly as you can (which isn’t solemn at all), leaning over to feed Mr. Pennycrumb. He nibbles your fingers and you pat his head before sitting back up. “Seriously, though, I dunno why you still want my input. You’re the one who named Mr. Pennycrumb because I had no idea what to name him.”

“You have an outsider’s opinion,” Five replies simply.

“Is that your way of saying it’s because we’re friends?”

He gives you an exasperated look. You grin.

( _Yes._ )

“Aw, I’m just pulling your leg. As an outsider-slash- _non_ -friend, I’m happy to, uh,” you pick up another cookie and wave it, muffling an ungodly snort, “chip in.”

Five sighs, as he is prone to do whenever you grace him with your puns, but that smile is on his face again and you think that it’s probably one of the best things in the world. “Do you know how terrible your sense of humor is?” he asks.

“Yep.” But it works.

Mr. Pennycrumb yaps at your feet. Five spares you one last glance before looking down at the pup, and after a moment, he moves from his seat to pick him up. Mr. P’s tongue lolls out as his _second_ -favorite human cradles him gently.

(Okay, okay. Despite your bellyaching about sharing Mr. P’s affections, deep down, you really don’t mind. Not a bit. You actually like it a lot – sharing something with Five, you mean. It’s like an inside joke, but a lot more fun.)

You prop your elbow onto the table and rest your chin in your palm, swishing the cookie around in your glass as you watch Five. He would probably kill you if you called him cute, but it’s the only word you can think of when you see him and Mr. Pennycrumb together. That, and relaxed – like he’s a normal kid, like you, just for the night. You wish you could take a picture and hang it on the fridge.

“Wrapped around his paw,” you sing-song, picking out a chocolate chip and eating it.

Five scoffs.

“Like you aren’t.”


	12. dust storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Holding their hands when they are shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

How an entire car managed to remain intact through the apocalypse, Five will never know, but what matters now is that the two of you are inside rather than outside it. He hunkers down on the floor behind the driver’s seat, scarf tucked beneath his chin, a salvaged book on temporal displacement propped up against his knees as he scribbles notes in the margins of page 143; across from him, you sit quietly, picking at the leather upholstery of the seat you’re leaning against. Dust batters the window above you in sharp, needling hisses.

“Five?”

“Yeah?” Five murmurs. When you don’t answer right away, he glances up. “What is it?”

You shift a little in your spot. “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?”

 _Sleeping?_ He scratches a star next to the bottom paragraph, frowning. “I’ve been busy.”

“You didn’t eat yet today, either.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” he says.

You fall silent again. Five thinks that’s the end of it, but then you push yourself up from a sitting position into a kneeling one; without even looking up, he can sense how much closer your face is to his now. It makes him think of how cramped the car is.

“Five –”

“What?” Shit. He’ll have to redo his last proof … all these goddamn _proofs_ –

“I … I think you should take a break.”

Five looks up at you when you say that, feeling a twinge of annoyance. For some reason, your words hit a nerve. Why are you concerned about this? Neither of you have the luxury of regular sleep or meals. “I’ll take a break once I’m done. Don’t worry about it.”

“But I _am_ worrying,” you say. This time, your tone is a little firmer, and the way you press your lips together, peering down at his book, chips away at the modicum of concentration he’s been desperately trying to keep ahold of. “And I think I should.”

The only thing worth worrying about is how to get out of _here_.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he tells you.

You’re visibly unsatisfied with his response. Fine. With a sigh, Five flattens his hand against the book’s spine to keep it open, reaching up to take off his hat and dropping it onto the seat next to him. It’s getting too damn stuffy in here.

He doesn’t expect you to understand – you’re normal, after all, from a different time, a different life than his. You don’t have to push yourself like he does to fix everything. Even more importantly, you _shouldn’t_ have to. It is his own burden to carry.

You are still looking at him.

“I can handle it,” Five says, softer.

Your voice is almost a whisper. “Your hands are shaking.”

Five blinks and looks down at his hands.

Oh. You’re right. Partially right, anyway – they’re trembling, not shaking, and there’s a difference between the two. He hadn’t noticed; or, maybe, he _had_ noticed sometime earlier and dismissed it.

In any case, it’s not worth fussing about.

Outside, the wind picks up. Bits of gravel ping off the rusted car doors and windows, and the two of you will be lucky if nothing cracks the glass. The sound grates his ears, and paired with your increasing presence and reaching hands, Five’s concentration is completely broken.

When you take the pen out of his grip and place it into the seat pocket, he doesn’t retrieve it.

“You have to take better care of yourself.” Your voice cuts through the howling wind outside, soft but resolute, as you bring his hands up to rest on top of his knees. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but … you have time to work this out, Five.”

“You don't know that for sure.”

“The moon blew up and the world ended. I don’t think there’s much else that can happen now.”

“There’s always a chance.” Then, to cover both bases, he adds, “Even if you’re right, I don’t want to take longer than I have to.”

“And I don’t want you to get sick. Or – or worse.”

His frown deepens. “I know my limit,” Five counters shortly. “I don’t need looking after.”

You smile briefly, knowingly, fingertips brushing over his skin. He notices how rough they are against the backs of his hands. And how gentle.

“Yeah,” you reply, “but it doesn’t hurt to have someone there anyway, right?”

Five doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing _to_ say in response to that, really, other than agree, because you’re right.

( _“You are stronger together than you are alone,”_ Dad often said. Turns out, it took jumping into the apocalypse to realize that the phrase had more merit than he’d previously given it.)

A particularly dense cloud of dust envelopes the car, painting even deeper shadows along the premature lines in your face. He doesn’t like it – doesn’t like how the shadows age you, because it reminds him that the two of you have already spent too many days on this other world, this _after_ world, and he still doesn’t know how to go back to _before_. The shadows make him uneasy when they’re around you. There’s a sudden urge to grab his pen again.

However, the squeeze of your hands around his keeps him from doing so. The dust outside thins just the slightest and Five takes in a breath, slowly and silently, attempting to kill the damn tremors underneath his skin. No, he’s not at his limit yet, not even a foot near the edge, but – well, perhaps he could take a moment to clear his head. It doesn’t seem like you’re going to change your mind, anyway, stubborn as you are.

As if you know what he’s thinking, you tug on his hands a little. “The storm hasn’t picked up any big rocks or things,” you explain when his brow furrows. “So I think it’s safe to lie down on the seats.”

(Sleep.)

The unspoken suggestion is not lost on him, but you don’t quite get how hard it is for him to just _sleep_ , especially with all that’s going through his mind right now. Sometimes it’s just easier to let the last thread snap.

But his fatigue takes over when you give him a pleading look, and Five reluctantly crawls onto the seats and lies down, his head just inches from your shoulder. He only meets your satisfied gaze for second before moving on to look up at the ceiling.

“How is it?” you ask expectantly.

“It’s good,” he admits, because it is. The leather is ragged but pliable. Five relaxes his shoulders – he hadn’t realized how tense he had been, curled up on the floor. It’s probably not much better for you; he decides to rest for fifteen minutes or so and then have the two of you switch places if the dust storm doesn’t pass by then.

You tuck the loose end of his scarf back underneath the rest of the fabric. “Good. I’ll be quiet now.”

“No,” Five hears himself say. When you hum questioningly, he frowns, quickly formulating a reason for his disagreement. “It’s fine if you talk.”

“… Oh. Okay. Um …”

As you search for a story to pass the time with, Five lets his eyelids fall a little lower, staring at the dull gray ceiling while he listens. He much prefers it to the scratching and screaming of the wind outside.

And although he’s not asleep by the time the storm passes barely ten minutes later, cutting the gentle drone of your voice short, he does feel better.


	13. red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 20\. Washing their back/hair in the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: implied/referenced murder  
> [A/N: No shower, just sticking Five’s head underneath a sink faucet. Also Villain!AU :)]

It really was too bad.

You had liked Elliott – honestly, you did, and you don’t like a lot of people. Sure, he was ridiculously paranoid, and his Jell-O molds boasted flavors that could alter the timeline all by themselves. But he had been a nice man, a harmless man, and you don’t like killing nice, harmless men unless you have to. Personally, anyway.

If only he had been cooperative for a few more hours …!

“What a shame,” you murmur, tucking the last corner of the blanket underneath his head. At least taking a bullet to the heart was almost as quick as being incinerated by a nuclear missile. Somewhat. In any case, you think to yourself as you stand up, he’s good as gone. Diego and Luther will probably want to bury him once they get back. Societal convention, and all that.

“Anybody still here?”

(Speak of the devils and they will appear –)

“In here,” you call out, smoothing out your clothes and hurrying into the kitchen before the two brothers – namely Diego – can make their own conclusions about the living room. As expected, they greet you with suspicious frowns as you come to a stop in front of them.

“What’s going on?” Diego demands.

“Hello to you, too,” you reply lightly. The man only narrows his eyes, and you scratch the back of your head, absently wondering if he does, in fact, like you enough not to turn you into a knife block. “So … things got a bit out of hand with Elliott while you guys were out.”

“What do you mean?” Luther asks.

You shrug. “I had no choice.”

“No choice?”

Diego’s jaw clenches, and he pushes past you towards the living room. “What did you do to him?”

“What he would’ve done to me if I hadn’t shot him first,” you reply evenly. You linger on the boundary between the kitchen and the living room, staying a respectful distance away as they stare down at the covered body. “If it makes it any better, it was quick. I didn’t torture him or anything like that. Not that I know how to.”

“Lucky for him,” Diego retorts. Nevertheless, his expression is calmer that you thought it’d be, and it puts you less on edge. It’s obvious that he’s still upset about it, however. “At least he didn’t suffer too much.”

“Yeah. He didn’t have much time left, anyway.”

The two brothers nod reluctantly, glancing at each other and then down at the body. You cross your arms, fingers brushing the hand-sized weapon just above your hip as Diego turns and bumps past you towards the door again. Probably to find a shovel. Luther, the big old softie, lifts Elliott from the red-leather sofa where you had wrapped him up.

He moves toward the front door as well but stops in front of you, uncertain. “You wanna …?” he starts, motioning the body towards you slightly.

You shake your head. “You two should do it. I already did my part.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I know you got along with him pretty well, and –”

You cut his rambling off with a pat to the back, ushering him along – if you look at the Elliott-shaped cargo in his arms any longer, you might actually start feeling guilty. “I’m one hundred percent positive. Just hurry up, yeah?”

He blinks down at you, then nods. “Okay. Just – come down if you change your mind.”

“Sure thing.”

With that, the hulk of a man wanders away with Elliott, and you walk over to the now vacant couch. Sitting down, you press your palms down into the leather. Is it still slightly warm? You resist the thought of standing back up and lean into the backrest instead. Jesus, you’re getting soft. He was expendable. There’s a thousand more Elliotts out there in a thousand more timelines, anyway.

Inhaling deeply, you take your pistol out. The barrel has, of course, cooled down by now, and you inspect it with careful fingers. But before you can take aim at one of the UFOs tacked onto the far wall, you hear a sound downstairs.

“Five?”

His footsteps are nimbler than usual as he climbs up the stairs. You put the pistol down and push yourself out of your seat, blinking in surprise as the teenage, bloodstained face of your partner comes into view. Everything about him is bloodstained, actually.

Save for the black suitcase gripped like a lifeline in his hand.

“So that’s where you disappeared to?” you exclaim, immediately taking the suitcase from Five and placing it on the coffee table as you shepherd him to the bathroom. “A killing spree without me? I had to settle for the conspiracy man.”

“You did it already?”

“It was in self-defense.”

Five scoffs lightly, shedding his jacket and leaving it on a chair as the two of you walk through the kitchen. “I’m sure it was.”

“It’s true! I mean –” pushing the bathroom door open, you consider, “fine, I got a little stir crazy while everyone was gone. But I didn’t think he’d pull the rifle on me.” You turn on the sink and feel the water run through your fingers, cold and then warm. Perfect. “But enough about me. Whose blood did _you_ bathe in?”

Five loosens his tie. “The board’s,” he tells you.

He keeps his expression professional, but there’s no mistaking the pride just begging to surface in his tone. You raise an eyebrow and hum, tugging him closer to the sink by his tie.

“Impressive. But there’s more, isn’t there?” you guess, trying not to sound like an eager child. Your eyes rove over his profile. “Here, let me wash your hair. It’s getting crusty.”

He rolls his eyes but leans over the sink nevertheless, grunting a bit when you push his head underneath the faucet. Pink water streams down onto the white porcelain and into the drain. As you lather up a bar of soap and begin scrubbing his hair, he speaks, his voice somewhat muffled by the lip of the sink. “I offed the Handler, if that’s what you’re asking.”

A grin spreads across your face. You rinse the last of the bubbles from Five’s hair. “It was.”

“You sound happy.”

“I’m ecstatic.” Running your fingers over his hair one last time, you force your hand off to grab a towel. “Almost everything’s in place now, isn’t it?”

“All there’s left to do is reset the suitcase, have Vanya blow up something next to JFK, and then all of us can head to Commission headquarters.” Removing his head from underneath the faucet, Five holds out a hand and you place the towel in it. “Smooth sailing from there.”

“Well, I do love a good boat ride.”

He huffs out a chuckle as he finishes drying his hair, running the towel under the water again. Your heart turns soft and goopy when his eyes dart to meet yours knowingly, just for a split second, before he wrings the towel out to wipe the blood from his face.

It’s a moment you’d like to savor a little longer, but the image of the suitcase in the living room inevitably shakes you out of it.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it while I work on resetting the suitcase,” you tell him. “Shouldn’t take too long – ten minutes or so. I hope all of your siblings are back by then.”

“Highly doubt it,” you hear him mutter as you head out the door, and you don’t bother to hide a snort. Each one of the Hargreeves – Five included, even though he often acts like he’s above it – has a fondness for wreaking their own special kind of havoc on each timeline. Might as well have some fun before pulling the plug on humanity, after all. Burn your name into the book before it closes.

You slip into Elliott’s bedroom to grab a hangar, then head over to the living room. The suitcase sits innocently where you had left it; you carefully undo the latches and open the case _just_ enough to sneak the hook in. Each one of this particular model has a sweet spot – and you could find it in your sleep. You had helped design the damn thing, after all. Not that your contributions were ever appreciated.

No, Dr. Geraldine Tynnsdale had to be a “true kindred spirit with the vision of the Commission” for the past twenty-five years.

Taking credit for _everything_.

After some careful prodding, you feel a satisfying click.

“There we go,” you praise the suitcase, withdrawing the hangar and popping the lid open. A sense of adoration fills your chest, replacing your feelings of malice as you stare at the familiar array of knobs and buttons. Beautiful. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

Just as you thought, it takes less than ten minutes to get everything in order. The bathroom door unlocks just as you finish inputting the coordinates for headquarters, and you look up at Five (who’s now sporting a freshly cleaned uniform, at least for the visible bloodstains) with a self-satisfied smile as he approaches the sofa. Overwhelming pride for a job well done fills your bones; you had missed your projects dearly these past two weeks.

“Ready?” He tilts his head contentedly, hands in his pockets.

“Ready,” you echo, standing up. “I suppose we’ll have to round up your siblings now.”

The flat look on Five’s face makes you snort again, and you pick up the suitcase while placing your other hand in the crook of his elbow, escorting the two of you towards the back door where Luther and Diego had gone.

Soon, you think, you’ll be free. Free to do whatever you like, make whatever you like, with Five at your side and no one to answer to but yourself.

A smile graces your face as you squeeze Five’s arm. Whoever said that happy endings don’t exist for people like you?


	14. pb & m

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. Making their favorite meal when they are having a hard day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: referenced animal death/gore

“Are you sure he’s okay?”

Klaus sighs loudly, bringing his foot up to his face with practiced ease. “He’s probably just stewing over his training again,” the boy says, flexing his toes gingerly before blowing on his big toe. You purse your lips at his words, screwing the cap of black nail polish shut, and Klaus looks up at you from underneath his eyelashes. “It’s _Five_ , [Y/n]. You should see him when you leave for the weekend. Total shut in.”

“But he hasn’t even come down for lunch or supper.” Setting the nail polish down, you tuck your knees up towards your chest, brow furrowing. “I mean, he doesn’t usually do that, does he?”

“I dunno. Sometimes!” Klaus exclaims, throwing his hands up. “You know, he talks _all_ the time about what a mess _I_ am, but he’s hardly more functional than me.”

You frown at him, eyes narrowing. “ _You_ don’t skip meals when I’m gone, do you?”

He waves you off. “Of course not. But that’s not the point. The _point_ is, Five is a broody boy obsessed with his powers, so don’t be surprised if he wants to be alone for a day or a week.”

“He’s not a _loner_.”

“Well, he tries to be more sociable when you’re here.”

“No.” You pause, resting a cheek on one knee. “I’d still like him even if he wasn’t.”

Klaus just raises his eyebrows, sending another gust of air toward his toes.

The black and red stripes on his nails are settling quite nicely, but the success doesn’t make you as proud as it usually would. You chew your lip and look at the closed door. Normally, during this time in the late evenings, you wouldn’t be surprised if Five blinked through, supposedly to take back something Klaus had snuck from his room or to make sure neither of you “had died” – though you’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that he just wanted to hang out with you and Klaus, since he’d stay a little longer after confirming that you and Klaus were, in fact, still alive. No such visit tonight. In fact, you’ve barely seen him all day.

The thought dampens your mood quite a bit.

The next thing you know, Klaus propels himself to a stand.

“Where are you going?” you ask, blinking as he stretches and gives you a particular look.

“More like where are _you_ going,” he replies, sighing. He grabs a hold of your wrist and starts tugging. “If you’re going to pine after Five all night, you might as well do something about it. Go … pop in and see what he’s up to.”

Break into Five’s room? Even though it’s tempting, you shake your head vigorously, ignoring the _pining_ part. “You said he wanted to be alone. He might get mad at me.”

“He _can’t_ get mad at you. He’d die of guilt.”

Klaus continues to pull on your arm until you’re sure it’ll come off if you stay on the floor. You give him an imploring look as you stand up, though the thought of checking up on Five is sounding more and more necessary by the second.

“Klaus –”

All the boy does is say your name right back as he throws the door open, nudging you outside into the dimly lit hallway. “Go have your quality time and come back when you’re done.”

“Are you sure –”

“He’ll be _ecstatic_. Especially if I’m not there.” And with that, Klaus shoos you off with a smile, closing the door.

Now alone, you look down the empty hallway, feeling mildly exposed and hoping that Five doesn’t come down the stairs right at this moment. There’s no doubt in your mind that you’re going to go up there, but … it’d make more sense if Klaus checked up on him, wouldn’t it? No matter how well you get along with Five, he and Klaus are brothers. They know each other a lot better than you probably ever will.

You should get him some food.

Inhaling sharply, you turn on your heel and make your way down the stairs, trying to make much less noise than you usually would – though you doubt anybody would care too much about a squeaking step, travelling through the Hargreeves mansion, especially down to the kitchen at night, still makes you wary of making your presence too big sometimes.

The air gets a bit chillier as you descend the last stretch of stairs leading to the basement, going faster as you get closer to the ground. Strangely, the lights in the kitchen are already on; you skip the last step and hurry through the gaping hole in the wall, curious.

Number Seven looks up from the table as you enter the kitchen, her surprised expression mirroring yours.

“Vanya?” you blurt.

She opens her mouth, then closes it, and you look down at the ingredients spread across the table. A jar of peanut butter, a half-finished bag of wonder bread. A bag of marshmallows – the mini ones used for rice krispies. Intrigued, you venture closer. You didn’t know Vanya had a sweet tooth.

(Suddenly, you realize that you don’t know much about her at all.)

“What are you doing down here?” you ask as you approach the table

She looks at you, still a bit wide-eyed, then looks down at the slice of bread in her hand. “Um,” she starts, then pushes forward, “I was … Five missed dinner and lunch, so I was going to make him something to eat.”

“Really?” You beam, glad that she had the same idea. You could go together. “So was I. Mind if I help?”

For a moment, Vanya hesitates. But then she nods cautiously, smiling a little, and you give a thumbs up and head over to the utensil drawer. Opening it up, you take a moment to try to attract one of the butter knives to your hand, but after it does nothing more than quiver a bit, you sigh and pick it up with a finger.

“Five really likes peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches,” Vanya explains when you walk back to the table. “They’re his favorite.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

You fetch a bread slice from the bag and set it on the cutting board, then, after peeking over at Vanya’s work, scoop up a big glob of peanut butter and slather it onto the bread. She sprinkles some marshmallows on top of hers and squishes another slice on top of the marshmallows. You follow her lead exactly. The minute or two that you spend making the sandwich are all wordless, very unlike when you and Klaus are together, but you find yourself enjoying them either way.

“Maybe we could bring him a drink, too? What do you think?” you ask.

She nods. “There’s apple juice in the fridge.”

—

The presentation isn’t anything fancy, but it gets the job done, and you get the task of carrying the cup of apple juice while Vanya holds onto the sandwiches.

“I hope it’s okay,” Vanya murmurs after she knocks on Five’s door, shifting on her feet.

Even though you’re wondering the same thing, you instinctively nod your head. “Don’t worry,” you whisper back. “We did a good job.”

She looks over at you out of the corner of her eye and manages a small smile in return. Right after that, the door opens.

You immediately feel a bit better upon seeing Five; however, the happiness gives way to concern when you see his expression.

Five looks at the two of you, then at the plate in Vanya’s hands and the cup in yours, before speaking.

“Now’s not a good time.”

His tone isn’t cruel or dismissive. But it _is_ a little dry, and very heavy and tired, and you bite your lip to keep yourself from telling him so.

Vanya’s face falls.

You’re unable to stay quiet any longer when both siblings’ gazes move away from the other. “Five,” you say, reaching out to touch Five’s shoulder gently. “Vanya’s been really worried about you. And me, too. We, um, wanted to bring you something to eat.”

The boy glances at Vanya again, who seems to have shrunk a little but still nods, and to your relief, his lips purse. He finally backs away from the door to let the two of you through.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, heading back to his desk. “… But thanks.”

Trailing after Vanya, you inspect Five’s room as you walk in. The walls are already crammed with chalky equations and notes and graphs, none of which you can begin to understand. When you look over at the corner where Five is, you spot the wastebasket next to his desk, filled to the brim with crumpled notebook paper. Klaus was partly right, you think with worry. You’re not completely surprised.

You make your way over to Five and put the cup of apple juice on his desk, right next to the plate of peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches. “You need to eat to think better,” you plead when he looks at you. “Right, Vanya?”

“I put lots of marshmallows,” she adds. “And I showed [Y/n] how to make one for you too.”

“I might’ve put too much peanut butter,” you mutter, scratching the back of your neck.

“That’s fine.”

You crack your brightest grin. “Famous last words, Five.”

He shrugs and turns back to his work. The two of you wait expectantly, albeit somewhat awkwardly, watching Five stare at his math and the textbook propped up against the wall in front of him. The end of his pen taps against the open pages of his notebook: _tap tap tap tap tap_. But he doesn’t write. You don’t think he even blinks. Troubled, you share a glance with Vanya; this time, it’s she who nods at you, reassuring.

Finally, Five sighs and puts his pen down. You don’t know if you’re glad or feel bad for it. Maybe both.

“Do you want us to leave?” Vanya ventures to ask.

He shakes his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “Stay,” he mutters, standing up. He picks up the cup of apple juice and takes a gulp, then grabs the plate and strides across the room to his bed. “Just in case my jaw is glued shut from [Y/n]’s sandwich.”

Vanya suppresses a snort. Your mouth drops open.

“Hey!”

Still, the joke – a Five joke, but a joke nonetheless – brings a cautious but real smile to your face as Five sits on the edge of his bed, taking a bite out of one of the sandwiches. You don’t know which one is yours and which one is Vanya’s. Not that it matters, unless his jaw really _does_ get glued shut because of the peanut butter. You’ll shoulder the blame in that case.

(… _Could_ your jaw get glued shut from peanut butter?)

You gravitate toward the bed as Five eats, sitting down next to him; Vanya lingers by the desk a little longer, and you wave her over.

“Come sit, Vanya.”

She looks between the two of you, then obliges, going over to sit on the other side of Five. She rests her hands on top of the comforter, leaning back on them as Five finishes the first sandwich and starts on the next one.

“We barely saw you after joint training,” you say after a minute or so of watching him polish off one half of the sandwich. Not hungry, he said. His actions definitely say otherwise. “Have you been working all day?”

He gives a brief, affirming grunt.

Taking that as a sign to go on, you swing your legs slightly back and forth. “I missed seeing you,” you say.

You think you see Vanya’s expression shift in your peripheral, but she turns her head before you can make sure. You also think Five stops chewing for a split second, but there shouldn’t be a reason for him to be surprised, so you’re probably just imagining things.

Five is your friend. Of course you’d miss seeing him if he disappeared all day.

In any case, he finally speaks again once there’s just a single piece of crust left; and when he does, his voice is so low that you wonder if he’s talking to himself.

“I had a drawback today.”

Vanya furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”

Five stares down at the last scrap of crust, picking at a loose crumb. It falls onto the plate. “I could blink with mice on my first try. So Dad wanted me to blink with a dog today.” His voice remains low. “And I …”

For the first time today – and perhaps even this month – you witness Five’s expression crumple just the slightest bit. An uneasy feeling squirms in your chest.

“I botched it.”

“It’s … it’s okay, Five,” you try to comfort, “I’m sure you tried your –”

He shakes his head, cutting you off with a glare. “No,” he snaps, “you don’t get it. I _botched_ it. I blinked with the dog and it turned _inside out_.”

Vanya’s eyes widen.

Your stomach turns.

So that’s why. Biting your lip, you stare at Five, horrified, trying desperately not to imagine what that had looked like. What that had _felt_ like. _Inside out_. Sir Hargreeves doesn’t care for animals, you know that, but you didn’t think – you don’t know why you didn’t –

“I’m sorry, Five,” Vanya whispers as you hug Five, her voice shaky. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs blandly, and you tighten your hold, feeling how tense he actually is. “Intentions don’t mean anything if you screw it up in the end.”

He finishes the crust, moving away from your hug to put the plate on his nightstand. Vanya wipes her eyes. When he comes back, you reach for his hand and squeeze it.

“Thanks for telling us, Five,” you tell him softly.

If Five looked tired before, now he seems utterly drained. But the tension seems to have ebbed. Just a little. And after a few seconds, he squeezes your hand back; well, not really a squeeze, but his fingers tighten, just barely, around yours. He meets your eyes and you smile a small smile.

Vanya gives her brother a brief hug, then stands up. “We should go,” she tells you reluctantly, glancing at the alarm clock. “Dad’s going to check our rooms soon.”

Dammit, you hate curfew. “Yeah, you’re right.” You pull away, not quite liking how cold your hand feels when you let go. Quickly weighing your options, you wrap your arms around Five one last time and give him a quick peck on the cheek before standing up as well. “See you tomorrow, Five. Try to get some sleep?”

He just shrugs, looking at the equations on his wall. Oh. Hopefully, you think as you grab Vanya’s hand and open the door, you didn’t make him too uncomfortable. The door creaks loudly and you cringe.

With one last “goodbye” from the two of you, which he returns in a murmur, you and Vanya hurry out of Five’s room and head quietly down the stairs.

“I hope he feels better,” you whisper, letting go of Vanya’s hand to hold onto the railing.

“I think he does. A little bit, at least.”

You reach the bottom, hesitating before saying what’s on your mind. “Um, Vanya?”

“Mhmm?”

“You know Five really well, right?”

The girl blinks, then smiles a little proudly. “… Oh, well, I guess so.”

“Does Five not like hugs?” you worry. “I just – I kinda do it without thinking, you know, and I think I might’ve made him uncomfortable back there.”

Vanya stares at you openly for a moment, tilting her head. “Not usually,” she eventually responds. Then a corner of her mouth twitches upwards. “But … I think he likes yours.”

“Oh.” That makes you feel better. “That’s good.”

“You should ask him later, though.”

“Yeah, I will.”

Footsteps lighter, you head to your room across from the stairs and twist the doorknob, then stop short. That’s right – Klaus wanted you to come back after you visited Five. Gnawing the inside of your cheek, you figure that you’ll need to talk to him tomorrow morning, not wanting extra repetitions for loitering in the hallway. He’ll understand.

Pushing the door open, you look back at Vanya. “’Night, Vanya.”

She smiles, and you feel the warm glow of a newfound camaraderie with the seventh sibling.

“’Night.”


	15. the knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18\. Sharing a soft smile across a crowded room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: violence, mild swearing

His nose is bleeding. Goddammit.

Five rolls his shoulders, scowling as blood trickles down the back of his throat. The thing that looks like Diego grins at him.

“Too slow, Number Five,” it taunts, brandishing a knife.

He sneers in response. “Not this time.”

Not wasting another second, Five blinks behind the uniformed copy and plunges the knife into its carotid. Both instantly crumble into dust.

“Five!”

Luther’s shout comes from the other side of the room. Turning his head, Five scoffs at what he sees – of _course_ the rest of the Diegos would try to attack Number One all at once – and after quickly swiping at his nosebleed with his thumb, he blinks past a tangle of flying tentacles.

This particular kind of joint exercise is relatively new. A few weeks ago, you had finally pushed your upper limit to four copies of seven people at once, which to his dad meant that you could now make copies of everyone (excluding Vanya) for joint training sessions. To distinguish them from the real ones, you have the copies appear in uniforms and masks.

Five thinks that it’s a good idea – with clones, everyone can identify their own and everyone else’s weaknesses. And he enjoys the challenge, as they are usually few and far between.

(He just reminds himself that the copies aren’t actually you and his siblings.)

Making his way to where Luther is, Five grabs one of the copies attacking his brother and twists its head. “Have you even _tried_ fighting any of the others?” he asks, blinking out of reach when a copy of Klaus runs at him.

Luther seizes the arms that two other clones had wrapped around his neck. “You think –” the boy hoists the copies up and over himself, slamming them into the ground – “Diego’s stupid clones would let me?”

“Like your clones are any better, jackass!” Diego’s retort cuts through the ruckus a few feet away, and Five watches as his other brother throws knives into the eyes of two Luther copies. “All I’ve been seeing is your stupid face!”

“Then shut up and get rid of them!”

Luther punches yet another approaching copy into the wall, now arguing with Diego. Five makes eye contact with you, and the two of you roll your eyes.

Suddenly, the lights blink red. Dad’s voice pierces through the speaker.

“Ten more minutes. Number Eight, make four more copies of Numbers Three, Five, and Six. If they are not all eliminated within the allotted time, free time on Saturday will be cut in half.”

“What?! Why?” Klaus complains, hiding behind Allison as she punches one of her copies in the throat.

“Klaus, stop slacking!”

Twelve more copies. They can take it. More of Ben’s tentacles will be a pain, but Allison’s been good so far at keeping some of his clones sated, and Ben can occupy the others until they can be taken down. He and Diego can attack Allison’s copies from behind and incapacitate them before they can speak. As for his own …

… Well, he and you can get rid of them in due time.

Five blinks to where you’re fighting off the remainder of your copies, expression pinched in concentration as more clones take form around you – some of them are what Dad had ordered, but others are from your own clones; he can tell because the latter are weaker, almost shadow-like. These are the ones that he kills, jumping from copy to copy until the air is thick with dust.

“Show-off,” you jibe as soon as he pushes out of his last jump. Allison’s, Ben’s, and his clones are already finding their targets, and Five spins around to strike one of his own when it blinks behind him.

“I’m not,” he shoots back. “Those were the weakest ones.”

You raise an eyebrow, pushing your last uniformed copy down so you can knee its face. “Oh, sorry, I forgot.” Your grin is bright and wild – adrenaline-filled, even now, and you duck to avoid one of the tentacles that swings past. “This is a total _snooze-fest_ for the mighty Five.”

“Did I _say_ that?”

“You thought it,” you retort in between hits. “And I – _oof_ – take offense to that, y’know. My copies aren’t good enough for you?”

He blocks a poorly-aimed kick, then blinks to the left so Ben’s tentacles can pick the copy up. “Not unless they’re me.”

“Geez, your ego’s bigger than Mount Everest.”

Progress is steady, and eventually, there are only four copies left to kill. Blinking onto a Ben-clone’s shoulders, Five doesn’t look as he grabs its chin and jerks it around, ignoring the fleshy _crack_ that occurs beneath the copy’s skin before it collapses. Now there’s three.

“Five minutes,” warns Dad’s voice from the speakers.

“I’ll take down one of your copies,” you tell Five after getting rid of the last copy of Allison, uncovering your ears. Sweat beads on your brow as you conjure a few more of your own copies. The process takes somewhat longer than usual – you’re getting tired, he thinks as he takes in a breath. (As is everyone else; even Five is finding it harder to do his spatial jumps). “Bet I’ll beat it before you beat yours.”

A smirk crawls onto his lips. “I’ll take that bet.” Energized by your challenge, Five fixates on the copy that Klaus is trying to tackle, blinking behind it. “Hey, asshole!”

He pushes himself during those last five minutes. Scrapes a hole through space one after the other, blinking from point A to point R to point Q, grazing his opponent and narrowly dodging blows himself. Five doesn’t let any of his other siblings get a shot in. He can beat you fair and square.

Occasionally, in that rare split second before his copy catches up, he glances at you and your army of selves, if only to make sure that you haven’t caught his other copy yet. Even though you’re not nearly as quick as his blinks, you’ve been gifted with abnormally sharp reflexes, which means that all of your copies have them too (though at a slightly lower level than the original). He’s relying on the fact that you’re tired enough for him to get ahead.

His copy blinks. Five follows him.

Immediately after stepping out, he gets yanked back by Allison. Something sharp and steely slices through the air, nicking his ear, and the other Five promptly disappears.

 _Goddammit_ –

Allison pushes him away from herself. “Watch where you’re throwing, Diego!” she yells.

“I friggin’ hit it, what … else do you want?!”

More than a little pissed, Five glares at Number Two, who is already readying another knife and making his way to where you’re fighting his last copy. “To stay out of the _way_ –”

Blue light flashes behind Diego right as he brushes past you. Five’s eyes widen as the other boy tenses, drawing his hand back to throw his knife a moment too late.

Then – "Move!"

In a blur of green, you snatch the knife out of Diego’s hand and thrust it into the copy’s chest, dragging the blade down to its stomach. It crumbles in seconds. Five hears the clang of the knife it had been holding as it falls to the floor.

The room is silent for a moment, save for the labored breathing of seven teenagers, and then the lights flash red.

“Time is up.” Dad’s voice is sharp and brisk. “Fifteen minutes have been deducted from your free time. Get changed for lunch.”

You’re breathing hard, hands braced on your knees. The rest of your copies – including his last one – fall apart, fading away once they’re nothing more than dust. Diego stares down at you, and even though the two of you are a few yards away, Five can see the conflicting feelings of anger and surprise on his brother’s face. For once, he doesn’t blame him. What you did was …

… _good_.

Allison clears her throat beside him, interrupting his thoughts.

“What,” he says.

“You’re staring.”

Five frowns, already annoyed at her tone. “At _what_?”

“You-know-who. It’s so obvious.”

He grunts. A thousand-watt smirk crosses his sister’s lips, and she leans back as Five crosses his arms tightly. (Diego is already stalking away.)

“And that’s a yes,” she says. “You two are so _cute_.”

Five wants nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off her face. But he doesn’t, and Allison knows that. With one last meaningful look, the girl skips away to – predictably – talk to you.

He wasn't staring.

Given that you’re already occupied, Five concludes that he’ll have to talk to you about the technicalities of the contest after lunch. Something in the back of his mind tells him that he doesn’t want to be a part of whatever Allison’s telling you, anyway.

Ben approaches him as Five observes you for a few moments longer.

“You know you’re staring, right?”

“I’m not.”

At that moment, you look away from Allison and meet his eyes. A soft grin graces your face. Automatically, he finds himself returning it, somewhat. Maybe.

Then Ben coughs meaningfully, and you turn back to Allison, and Five immediately schools his expression into one of decided apathy. “Hurry up,” he mutters to his brother, making his way toward the exit.

Unperturbed, Ben keeps stride with him, taking off his track jacket. “I was the one waiting for _you_.”

Five just clicks his tongue in reply. An unfamiliar and unwanted warmness makes its way to his face, and he pushes the door open without looking back, heading toward the stairs.

Siblings are _annoying_.


	16. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 43\. Holding shopping bags that are too heavy for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

You step out of the car, the bottoms of your loafers scraping against the asphalt, and gaze up at the plain brown building silhouetted against the darkening sky.

The sight hits you with a bout of homesickness. How long has it been since you’ve shopped at a grocery store, really – sometime before the Commission recruited you out of 1949? It must have been. After all, you hadn’t exactly had the time or place to buy food and cook something up. Most of the meals you’d eaten for the past twenty-eight years were from cafés or restaurants.

“[Y/n].” Five snaps you out of your thoughts.

“Oh. Right,” you murmur, walking with him to the entrance. You feel his eyes on you as you push the door open.

As soon as you enter, you soak in the smell of paper bags and fresh fruit. Lands alive. You suddenly remember grocery shopping with your grandmother when you were – well, just a little younger than your physical age right now. Oh, now those were the days. She would take you to the candy store afterwards if you didn’t knock any of the displays over while she shopped.

(Everything was an adventure back then. You’ve been trying to regain that sense of wonder.)

Five lays claim to an abandoned cart and heads straight to the tea and coffee aisle.

You shake yourself out of your nostalgia to catch up with him. “Glad to see your priorities are in order,” you tease, sidestepping another customer.

“They’re always in order.”

“Of course.”

You watch his determined expression, amused, as he examines the shelves of coffee cans and bags like they’re suspects in a lineup. The two of you get halfway through the aisle before coming across a particular brand you remember him liking; he reaches up to grab one can of their 100% Colombian and plunks it into the cart.

Just a few feet away, a man around your age chuckles. “Don’t drink it all at once,” he says when you and Five look over at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Five gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Try me,” he says.

You manage to hide your snort under the guise of clearing your throat. Shooting the stranger what hopefully looks like an apologetic smile, you quickly usher Five out of the coffee aisle before you get a lecture on manners.

“One day I’ll bust a gut and we’ll both get in trouble,” you mock-admonish, smacking him lightly on the arm as you push the cart towards the fresh produce section. “How are we supposed to lay low if you don’t act your age?”

He seems to hunch over further, still displeased by the previous interaction. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he mutters, “I’m fifty-eight years old. I _am_ acting my age.”

The crossness of his posture causes you to sober up a bit. _Ah_. Knitting your brow, you stop in front of the apple stand, facing him fully.

From the moment that Five and you fell into 2019, it’s been apparent that the whole de-aging thing is hitting him a lot harder than it’s been hitting you. You know that part of it is because he’s the one who actually _did_ the time travel; you know that in between your work to prevent the apocalypse, he’s been combing through his equations, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. You also know that the other part of it is a matter of pride. And you get it. Despite enjoying your recovered youth a little more than Five, you don’t like reliving the experience of being talked down to either. Every time Five gets patronized, you can practically feel his blood boil – age was the only thing of societal value that he had gained from the apocalypse, and now that he’s physically thirteen again, that advantage is gone.

“Five, I didn’t forget,” you reply easily, softly. “But we both know that’s not how either of us _look_. So we gotta adapt. Like always.”

Five shakes his head, chuckling dryly. “I’ve spent my whole damn life adapting to _bullshit_.”

“I know.”

He inhales slowly, then exhales through his nose as you put a hand on his back. After glancing at you, he looks away stiffly.

“Sorry for screwing it up.”

“Hey. We got here in one piece and I don’t have back problems anymore. I should be thanking you.” You grin at him, and he scoffs.

_There we go_.

Dropping your hand to brush your fingers against his, you turn around to inspect the apples. “Now,” you announce, “I know I always complain about inflation, but explain to me why the hell these things are a dollar fifteen per pound.”

You still have some cash that the Commission had given the two of you for meal expenses, and since Five and you have literally nothing else, you spend the next hour perusing all that the grocery store has to offer. It’s quite … normal, really, tossing this or that into the cart and chatting with Five about the kinds of meals you would eat when you were kids, and you like it very much. You haven’t felt this domestic in decades.

After paying for your things, Klaus’s requested chocolate pudding, and Five’s coffee (it was the only thing he had wanted from the store), you take your turn driving back to the Hargreeves mansion.

Five blinks out of the car as you cut the engine, opening the trunk and taking all of the bags before you even open the door to get out.

“We need to start our surveillance of Meritech early tomorrow morning,” he tells you once you join him. “Whoever the eye belongs to is going to walk in there sometime between then and doomsday.”

You nod, closing the trunk and locking the car. “Right.”

The taillights flash in the darkness as you press the button again, just to make sure, and Five waits until you’re satisfied before starting toward the back entrance. With all of the groceries.

How many times do you have to tell him that he doesn’t have to do everything himself? “Fives,” you croon, reaching over to tap his fist. (The answer is as many times as it takes.)

In return, you get a brief glance. Five slows down just a hair, wordlessly shifting the bags to his other hand, and takes your hand.

You can’t help but snort.

“What?” he snips defensively. The two of you stop in the middle of the alley.

“Five, I –” you smile at him, somewhat flustered and absolutely charmed, and gesture to the groceries – “I was going to take some of the bags so you didn’t have to carry all of them.”

He blinks, face blank.

“I see,” he says. You fail to hold in another chuckle, and at the sound of it, Five attempts to let go of your hand.

“No, no, no, no, no.” You tighten your hold, moving to take half of the groceries. “I have two hands.”

With that, you resume walking, both hands full and quite sure that you’ve never adored your partner more than at this moment. Who knew he could be such a romantic?

Said partner walks beside you, silent and avoiding your gaze. You nudge him to break the tension. “I never thought you could be so smooth, dear.”

“You’ve done it before,” he grumbles, and you can hear an undertone of – dare you say it? – embarrassment in his voice. His gaze darts down to the bags. “I assumed wrong.”

“Five. You can _always_ assume that I want to hold your hand.”

Even though you’re being incredibly corny on purpose, Five doesn’t dole out any snark. The two of you enter the house, and when you turn on the lights, you notice, with infinite satisfaction, that his face is flushed.


	17. seam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 34\. Mending an item of their clothing that was ripped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing

You have a favorite hoodie. Five – and everyone else – knows it’s your favorite because you wear it every night and any other time you don’t have to wear the uniform; you had been wearing it when you first set foot into the academy, and you still wear it now, no matter how worn out it’s gotten. And it’s _worn_. The Eiffel Tower printed onto the front is cracked and faded, the elbows patched up because the fabric there had been scuffed thin.

By all accounts, you should probably get a new one. But Five knows that you won’t because you’re a sentimental person, and that ancient article of clothing has some sentimental value that he will probably never understand.

With this in mind, it’s no wonder that tragedy should befall your precious hoodie at some point, that point being today.

“It ripped.”

Your tone is sullen as you hold your hoodie out, showing Five where the top seam of the front pocket had torn. The flap of fabric hangs on by an inch of intact stitching.

Glancing down at the damage and then back up at your forlorn expression, Five wonders why you had specifically gone to _him_ about this. “How’d that happen?” he questions.

You twist your mouth, rocking back on your heels. “… I pull on the pocket sometimes,” you admit. “And I guess I pulled too hard this time.”

Five nods slowly. It would be a lie to say that he’s surprised, but he finds himself unwilling to give you shit over it. “Our mom can fix it for you,” he points out, uncrossing his legs.

“I know, but she’s recharging,” you murmur, lowering your arms until the sleeves of your hoodie touch the floor. “And my mom’s gonna be here soon.”

Which means …?

“You want me to hold onto it,” Five guesses, “and give it to my mom so she can fix it over the weekend.”

Your expression lights up, though you seem apologetic as well. “Yeah. If that’s okay with you? I asked Klaus, but he told me to ask you instead because he’ll probably forget.”

Good idea. “Sounds about right,” he responds wryly. Standing up, Five holds out his hands, and you carefully place your hoodie in them. “I’ll take it to her.”

Based on the blinding smile on your face, one would think that he just agreed to babysit your firstborn child. “You’re a _lifesaver_ , Five. Thank you.”

He nods again. From the stairs, Klaus shouts your name, and after one last fervent ‘thank you,’ you turn on your heel and run out of the living room to rejoin him. Five listens as the two of you race up the stairs, loud as usual, then looks down at the bundle of cloth now in his possession.

The fabric is soft and light against his fingers – nothing like the starched stiffness of the academy uniform. He scrutinizes the torn pocket again, pressing it back into place. Mom could fix this easily …

—

As soon as noon hits the next day, Five takes your hoodie and blinks to the mezzanine where Mom is.

“Mom.”

She looks up from her work – it’s a cross stitch of a bundle of roses, all sunny yellow with pink edges – and smiles at him, unstartled by his sudden appearance. (She never is.) “Five!” she chirps, tilting her head. “What is it?”

He shows Mom the pocket. Her beam immediately turns into a worried frown, and she sets down her cross stitch to lift up the drooping fabric.

“Oh, dear.” She runs her thumb along the torn edge. “This is [Y/n]’s favorite sweatshirt, isn’t it?”

“You can fix it, right?”

She takes the hoodie from him, inspecting everything. A hum leaves her throat, and then she smiles again, nodding happily. “Of course,” she assures him. “It’ll be as good as new! Oh, and I could clean it properly, too.”

You’d appreciate that. The edges of the cuffs could use a proper cleaning, given that they’re supposed to be yellow, not grey. “Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome, Five,” Mom says warmly, standing up.

She waltzes past him, heading down the stairs and towards the sewing room; and although Five knows that he should very well get going with his own business, he follows her, having an inexplicable need to keep track of what you had entrusted him with. (Well, not completely inexplicable. He’s _responsible_.)

There’s nothing extraordinary about the sewing room because it doesn’t have to be. He’s only been here a handful of times in the past, each of them for measurements so Mom and a tailor could make new uniforms and pajamas as he grew out of his old ones; upon glancing around, he sees that it hasn’t changed since then. Aside from the general organized array of sewing materials and tools, there are two large tables and two sewing machines, as well as eight mannequins, the shapes of which resemble himself, his siblings, and you.

Seating herself at one of the tables, Mom lays your hoodie down and smooths out the folds and wrinkles. “Five,” she calls him from the doorway, picking up a small, lumpy green pincushion that looks suspiciously handmade, “Could you be a dear and look for the yellow thread in that bin?”

Five silently obliges, then grabs a chair to sit near the sewing machine.

He watches as Mom makes careful but prompt work of pinning the pocket back on. Then she moves to set up the sewing machine, threading it and choosing the right stitch length and all of those things that Five hadn’t cared to know about before; now, however, he sees why someone might find this appealing. It’s methodical and practical, this sewing machine. Subconsciously, he leans in further to see how it works.

Mom lifts up the little metal foot below the needle, sliding your hoodie underneath until the pocket’s lined up just so. She presses the foot pedal, and the machine hums as she begins to sew the fabric back into place.

However, once she gets about halfway through, she stops.

When Five looks at her to see why, Mom smiles at him. “Would you like to try, Five?” she asks.

Hm. Well, it doesn’t seem difficult.

He shrugs. “Okay.”

—

“Five!”

Five looks up from his book as you bound into the living room, swathed in your newly repaired hoodie. You come to a stop in front of the sofa and tug at the bottom of the sweatshirt to show him the attached pocket.

“Look, she fixed it!” you exclaim. “And it’s so _clean_.”

“I can see that.”

You grin broadly as you stuff your hands into the kangaroo pocket, seeming to revel in the soft fabric. Your strange enthusiasm is almost palpable, and as it sinks in that you’re _pleased_ with the result, Five feels a sense of satisfaction.

And that doesn’t make complete sense to him, because of course you’d be pleased. It’s ridiculously hard to disappoint you.

“You’re lucky to have such a cool mom, Five,” you continue. “She can do everything. And she’s nice, like, all the time.”

There’s a reason for that. “She’s a robot,” Five reminds you.

You pout. “Well – yeah, I know, but that doesn’t make her any less cool. It makes her even cooler, actually …”

Trailing off, you tilt your head at him, seemingly lost in thought. Five is slightly unsettled by the pensive look in your eyes, but he holds your gaze, unwilling to be the one to break contact. It’s a hidden relief when you shake your head.

“Ugh. Sorry, I spaced out. Thanks for looking after it for me, Five.”

“You’re welcome.”

You hug him briefly and bid him good night, then saunter off in your hoodie, humming some off-key tune of which he doesn’t know the origin. Five settles back and opens his book once more, locating his half-finished note in the margins.

For some reason, your smile sticks in his mind for the rest of the night.


	18. duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 13\. Playing your fingers through their hair while sitting next to them on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no powers!historical!au

The elegance of the Hargreeves estate is of the dark, academic sort – polished, reserved, all sharp lines and dim lighting and old books – and you’d feel quite intimidated by it if you were any less acquainted with its occupants. You and your sister always look out of place when you visit, bright splotches of summer color roaming the narrow, perpetually autumnal hallways; and when congregating with the siblings in the library or outside, any visitor could glance at your merry group and immediately tell apart the hosts and the guests. 

It’s all a reflection of your respective parents, really – if you had any say in how you presented yourself, it certainly wouldn’t be in the vivid, youthful hues of your mother’s choosing, and you’re sure that some of the others have similar sentiments. 

Because while your family and Five’s family are certainly different in some ways, their respective heads are both pretty damn suffocating.

“Looks like it’s a draw.”

You grunt, displeased, and collapse back in your chair, bundling up in your blanket. “Can’t take a loss, can you, Five?”

“Not if I can help it,” he answers. His frown and crossed arms speak to his dissatisfaction with the result; losing is never an option, but clear-cut victories are always better than a _draw_. “Want to play again?”

The suggestion is tempting. Very tempting. You reach out and pick up your king, feeling the cold, smooth marble against the pads of your fingertips, and purse your lips in thought. Your eyes flick up briefly to meet Five’s.

Oh.

“Maybe tomorrow,” you finally say, putting the piece down. “I’m getting a bit tired.”

Five studies you for a moment, head tilting in that particular, scrutinizing way of his. Then his expression smooths out and he nods.

After putting the pieces back into place, the two of you exit the warmth of the library and head towards the guest wing. The walk is silent; you keep your borrowed blanket wrapped snugly around your shoulders, the bottom dragging across the perfect, wooden floor as you look at the paintings hung along the wall. They’re landscapes, mostly – of dark green forests; cold, still oceans; blue-grey mountains shrouded in mist. Impersonal and very fitting for the tastes of Five’s father, that’s for sure.

When you reach your room, you smile at your companion, and it feels unnaturally polite. “Well, goodnight, Five.”

“Goodnight.”

The boy turns and strolls back down the hallway, and you wait until he disappears around the corner, chewing on your bottom lip, before pushing the door open to enter your room.

“You two are duller than an ashtray. ' _Goodnight_ ’?”

“Sh –” you bite back an expletive, whipping around to glare at the intruder on your bed. “Lila, go back to your own room!”

Your sister just stares at you from her upside-down position, arms and legs splayed out as she smiles. “You still haven’t talked about it, have you?”

“We don’t need to,” you snap back quietly, closing the door as quickly as you can without slamming it. “He understands it as well as you and I do.”

“You realize Mum never said you’ll have to marry the guy.”

“Of course not; she just _strongly_ suggested it.”

“Still not an order.”

Her flippancy causes you to glare. “Lord Harold is rich and he’s willing –"

“He’s a massive _creep_ ,” she interrupts, giving you an incredulous look. “And you just came of age, [Y/n]. You’ll be miserable.”

“I can get it annulled after five years, remember?”

“You’re really going to last for five years?”

She’s trying to pull something out of you, you know it. You try to maintain your composure.

“A massive debt isn’t going to just disappear,” you repeat. “It was either him or Lady Helen, and Helen got betrothed last month. Harold’s the quickest way to fix it, in case you forgot.”

“And in case _you_ forgot, it’s literally not your problem. Stop making a martyr of yourself when you don’t have to.” Lila sits up and swivels around to face you, crossing her legs. Her expression is expectant. “I’ll figure something out, so don’t throw a fit, alright? The debt’s going to be mine along with the estate. You can afford to disappoint Mum for once in your life.”

Your brow furrows. “Lila –”

“If you keep arguing, I’m going to smother you with a pillow,” she says. “Either you agree with me, or you tell your future love affair that you’re marrying a human toad in the spring.”

“Future lo – it’s not like that! We’re friends!”

Lila holds your indignant gaze. Then, with practiced, unladylike ease, she hops off your bed, puts her hands on her hips and raises her eyebrows at you.

“You have the worst case of denial I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” she says.

“I’m being completely honest,” you retort hotly. And you are. You and Five are friends, and although the nature of your relationship is admittedly more comfortable than any other friendship you’ve had over the years, nothing between you and Five had ever been non-platonic.

(Not that you would _mind_ something non-platonic – but as you’ve reiterated to Lila many, _many_ times, you’re just as content being friends. Having a genuine, close companion in your world is rare, and you’re tired of everyone deciding what you and Five should be when the two of you are more than capable of figuring it out for yourselves.)

“Why do you care, anyway? Everything will be easier for you if I marry Harold.”

“And more miserable for you.” She lets her arms fall to her sides. “Look, I’m the oldest, so I’m supposed to be the miserable one, not you. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t marry Harold. Give yourself more time to grow up.”

You don’t know what to say.

Seemingly finished with her piece, Lila smiles before brushing past you, nudging your blanket to the side on her way to the door. You glance away when she looks over her shoulder at you.

“Sleep on it.”

… You do, though it’s a lot less sleep than you’d hoped.

—

The next morning is slow and lazy. It’s a good thing in your opinion, because as mentioned before, you had spent a great deal of the night thinking about what your sister had said, and your head feels quite foggy as a result. A cup of tea and a horse ride with everyone outside in the snow both help somewhat over the course of the day. However, by the time the sky begins to darken, you’re back in your room to take a nap before supper, and quickly return thereafter.

When you hear three quick raps on your door, you groan and drag yourself out of bed.

“Lila,” you grumble as you turn the knob and pull, “can’t you go bother Diego instead –”

You swallow your words when you see your actual visitor. Five gives you a brief, tight-lipped smile.

“Mind if I come in?”

“Uh,” you respond intelligently, then shake your head and step to the side, remembering your manners. “Of course.”

Five walks in and heads towards the window. You go to the couch nearby and sit down, slightly perplexed as he finds an interest in the candle burning on the sill – he’s welcome to hang around in here, certainly, but the two of you usually convene in his room or the library. The guest room doesn’t have much to offer in terms of entertainment.

In due time, the boy turns away from the frost-covered window and joins you on the couch.

“Your sister said you weren’t feeling well,” is all he says.

So that’s why he’s here. Shrugging, you put your hands in your lap, fiddling with the family ring on your middle finger. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

Your lackluster explanation isn’t enough, if his short, replying hum is anything to go by. Five leans forward, folding his hands and resting his chin on them. _And what else?_ he seems to say.

“It’s … It’s just been a busy year, with Lila and me coming of age and all. More responsibilities and expectations, and all that,” you eventually continue, staring down at the thick, luxurious carpet at your feet. “Though I don’t have much of a right to complain. Lila’s bearing most of the pressure, since she’s the heir apparent …”

“She doesn’t seem too bothered,” Five points out, tone bland.

You allow yourself to grin. “Because we’re on _vacation_. Five, if you saw Lila this summer, you would’ve seen how hard she’s been working.” Not to mention all of the proposals that she had so graciously shot down, on account of her veto power and general distaste for marriage. “Honestly, the two of you have a lot in common and I don’t know why you butt heads so often.”

“I have my reasons.”

At that cryptic snark, you reach out and gain purchase on his hair, ruffling it in righteous revenge. Five grunts half-heartedly, elbowing you away. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth and you almost feel like this conversation is going to be normal – that is, as normal as it gets with a Hargreeves.

(His hair is very soft. You feel bad for messing it up, so you attempt to smooth it back into its original state; about a minute into that attempt you realize what you’re actually doing and withdraw. You shouldn’t be so improper.)

Do you _have_ to do this?

You decide to pay the piper before you can talk yourself out of it. “You know,” you say when the joviality fades, “she’s the one who suggested that I talk to you. About my possible betrothal.”

Five’s expression flattens. He looks straight ahead again, resting his elbows on his knees. “What is there to talk about?”

“Well, you’re my closest friend and one of the smartest people I know, so I ought to ask for your opinion on the possibility of …” You reconsider for one final moment, then inhale deeply and let it out. “Of me refusing Lord Harold’s offer.”

To your slight surprise, Five nods.

“Did you talk to your mother about it?” he questions.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about it for months, but I only started seriously considering it last night. And now I really don’t want to marry Lord Harold. He unsettles me and I’m not ready.”

He frowns. “Neither of them is going to accept that as a reason.”

“I know.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “They’ll kick up a fuss over finances and it’ll be a bit of a scandal. That’s why I’m asking for your advice.”

Being the pragmatist that he is, you had thought that Five would be more averse to your plan. He himself had done things that he did not want to do in order to help his siblings, so you had assumed that despite his immediate dislike of Lord Harold since the night of your coming-of-age celebration, Five would tell you to endure a few years with the noble before disposing of him and collecting your dues. It’s the easiest way to get what you and your family needed, after all.

The fact that he’s so accepting of your decision makes you curious …

“First of all, even if he recognizes your refusal – and you’ll probably have a hard time with that, which will be an issue all on its own – your mother will try to find someone else to ship you off to,” he states, eyebrows pinched. “Preferably within the next year or so, right?”

“Yes.”

“How likely is she to push back your marriage by a few years?”

“… Not very likely,” you admit.

The boy pauses, thinking, then sits back.

“I could propose to you,” he offers, “if you’d like.”

You accidentally laugh out loud, you’re so taken aback. Five? _Proposing_? “Come again?”

“You heard me the first time.”

“We’re practically penniless. Would your father even give his blessing?”

He rolls his eyes. “Penniless or not, you’re an aristocrat with a title. If nothing else, Dad will accept _that_.”

“Neither of us want to get married.”

“And yet it’s your most realistic option thus far.” Five pins you with a serious gaze, and it finally hits you that he’s genuinely, actually _asking_. “Are you okay with it or not?”

“I …” You fumble over your words, staring at Five with wide eyes. “I mean, yes, I’d be okay with that, but … are you sure? You’d marry me just to get me out of another marriage?”

(Your question is not born of a doubt that he’ll go through with it. Five is a person of his word. But this is a big deal, and you’re both young, and most importantly of all, you don’t want this to be a mistake.)

“Let’s just say that I’d rather it be you than anyone else,” he mutters, shrugging softly. “This is your back-up plan, anyway. And if the marriage goes sideways, we can have it annulled after a few years and you’ll get a settlement too.”

He says it as if he’s discussing the weather. You chuckle, inexplicably reassured and amused by his bluntness. “Not even ten minutes into your proposal and you’re already thinking about an annulment? I fear for our future, Five.”

“There are worse things to be afraid of,” he replies sardonically. “Bring it up with your mom when you go back. If you can’t get out of a marriage, write me and I’ll talk to my dad.”

“Alright. You should bring Allison with you, though.”

“I suggest the same with Lila. Make it convincing.”

That won’t be too difficult. You nod, and with that, the deal seems to be sealed. Although you’re still processing what just happened, and Five is likely realizing just what he and you are potentially getting yourselves into, the two of you share a small smile nonetheless. It is hard not to. 

“Thank you,” you murmur after a while. 

Five glances over at your hands, then down at his. “Don't thank me yet."

"Alright, then. If you insist."

As your friend twists the steel ring on his index finger, you think to yourself, yes, you do want more time to grow up. But if the world won’t give that to you, you figure that a life with Five would be the next best thing. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you want, check out my tumblr [@paperpocalypse](https://paperpocalypse.tumblr.com/)!


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